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ADDRESSES  IN  AMERICA.  1919 

POEMS 
MOODS,  SONGS  AND  DOGGERELS 

MEMORIES  (ILLUSTRATED) 
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PLAYS 

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JOT 

STRIFE 
SECOJTD  SERIES:  THE  ELDEST  Sow 

THE  LITTLE  DRKAM 

JUSTICE 
THIRD  SERIES:     THE  FUGITIVE 

THE  PIGEON 

THE  MOB 
FOURTH  SERIES:  A  BIT  o'  Love 

FOUNDATIONS 

THE  SKIN  GAXB 
SIX  SHORT  PLAYS 


PLAYS 

THIRD  SERIES 
BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


PLAYS 


THIRD  SERIES 


THE   FUGITIVE 

THE  PIGEON 

THE   MOB 


BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1922 


THE  FUGITIVE 

COPYRIGHT,  isia.  BY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


THE  PIGEON 

COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


THE  MOB 

COPYRIGHT,  i»u,  BY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


All  rights  reserved 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


College 
M"*** j|  i 

PK 


ser 


DOLORES  AND   FRANK  LDCAS 


THE  FUGITIVE 

A  PLAY  IN   FOUR   ACTS 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

GEORGE  DEDMOND,  a  civilian 

CLARE,  his  wife 

GENERAL  SIR  CHARLES  DEDMOND,  K.C.B.,  his  father^ 

LADY  DEDMOND,  his  mother 

REGINALD  HUNTINGDON,  Clare's  brother 

EDWARD  FULLARTON),      ,  .     , 

DOROTHY  FULLARTON  ) 

PAYNTER,  a  manservant 

BUHNEY,  a  maid 

TWISDEN,  a  solicitor 

HAYWOOD,  a  tobacconist 

MALISE,  a  writer 

MRS.  MILER,  his  caretaker 

THE  PORTER  at  his  lodgings 

A  BOY  messenger 

ARNAUD,  a  waiter  at  "  The  Gascony" 

MR.  VARLEY,  manager  of  "  The  Gascony" 

Two  LADIES  WITH  LARGE  HATS,  A  LADY  AND  GENTLEMAN,  A 

LANGUID  LORD,  His  COMPANION,  A  YOUNG  MAN,  A  BLOND 

GENTLEMAN,  A  DARK  GENTLEMAN. 

ACT     I.    George  Dedmond's  Flat.    Evening. 
ACT   II.     The  rooms  of  Malise.    Morning. 
ACT  III.    SCENE   I.  The  rooms  of  Malise,    Late  afternoon. 
SCENE  II.  The  rooms  of  Malise.    Early  After- 
noon. 
ACT  IV.    A  small  supper  room  at  "  The  Gascony." 

Between  Acts  I  and  II  three  nights  elapse. 

Between  Acts  II  and  Act  III,  Scene  I,  three  months. 

Between  Act  III,  Scene  I,  and  Act  HI,  Scene  II.  three 

months. 
Between  Act  III,  Scene  II,  and  Act  IV  six  months. 


CAST  OF  THE  FIRST  PRODUCTION 

AT  THE 
ROYAL  COURT  THEATRE,  SEPTEMBER  18,  1913 

George  Dedmond  MR.  CLAUDE  KING 

Clare  Miss  IRENE  ROOKE 
General  Sir  Charles  Dedmond,  K.C.B.   MR.  NIGEL  PLAYFAIR 

Lady  Dedmond  Miss  ALMA  MURRAY 

Reginald  Huntingdon  MR.  HYLTON  ALLEN 

Edward  Fullarton  MR.  LESLIE  REA 
Mrs.  Fullarton                                    Miss  ESTELLE  WINWOOD 

Paynter  MR.  FRANK  MACRAE 

Burney  Miss  DORIS  BATEMAN 

Twisden  MR.  J.  H.  ROBERTS 

Haywood  MR.  CHARLES  GROVES 

Malise  MR.  MILTON  ROSMER 

Mrs.  Miler  MRS.  A.  B.  TAPPING 

Porter  MR.  ERIC  BARBER 
A  Messenger  Boy 

CHARACTERS  IN  ACT  FOUR 

A  Young  Man  MR.  VINCENT  CLIVB 

Arnaud  MR.  CLARENCE  DERWENT 

Mr.  Varley  MR.  CHARLES  GROVES 

A  Languid  Lord  MR.  J.  H.  ROBERTS 

His  Companion  Miss  MORE-DUNPHIE 

A  Blond  Gentleman  MB.  LESLIE  REA 

Two  Ladies  with  large  hats  MISSES  BATEMAN  and 

NEWCOMBE 


ACT  I 

The  SCENE  is  the  pretty  drawing-room  of  a  flat.  There 
are  two  doors,  one  open  into  the  hall,  the  other  shut 
and  curtained.  Through  a  large  bay  window,  the 
curtains  of  which  are  not  yet  drawn,  the  towers  of 
Westminster  can  be  seen  darkening  in  a  summer 
sunset;  a  grand  piano  stands  across  one  corner. 
The  man-servant  PATNTER,  clean-shaven  and  dis- 
creet, is  arranging  two  tables  for  Bridge. 

BUBNET,  the  maid,  a  girl  with  one  of  those  flowery 
Botticellian  faces  only  met  with  in  England,  comes 
in  through  the  curtained  door,  which  she  leaves  open, 
disclosing  the  glimpse  of  a  white  watt.  PATNTER 
looks  up  at  her;  she  shakes  her  head,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  concern. 

PATNTER.  Where's  she  gone? 

BURNET.  Just  walks  about,  I  fancy. 

PATNTER.  She  and  the  Governor  don't  hit  it!  One 
of  these  days  she'll  flit — you'll  see.  I  like  her — she's 
a  lady;  but  these  throughbred  'tins — it's  their  skin  and 
their  mouths.  They'll  go  till  they  drop  if  they  like 
the  job,  and  if  they  don't,  it's  nothing  but  jib — jib — 
jib.  How  was  it  down  there  before  she  married  him? 

BURNET.  Oh'    Quiet,  of  course. 
1 


2  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  i 

PATNTER.  Country   homes — I  know   'em.    What's 
her  father,  the  old  Rector,  like? 

BUBNEY.  Oh!  very  steady  old  man.      The  mother 
dead  long  before  I  took  the  place. 
PATNTER.  Not  a  penny,  I  suppose? 
BURNEY.  [Shaking  her  head]  No;  and  seven  of  them. 
PAYNTER.    [At  sound  of  the   hatt  door]   The   Gov- 
ernor! 

BURNEY  withdraws  through  the  curtained  door. 
GEORGE  DEDMOND  enters  from  the  hall.  He  is 
in  evening  dress,  opera  hat,  and  overcoat;  his 
face  is  broad,  comely,  glossily  shaved,  but  with 
neat  moustaches.  His  eyes,  clear,  small,  and 
blue-grey,  have  little  speculation.  His  hair  is 
well  brushed. 

GEORGE.  [Handing  PAYNTER  his  coat  and  hat]  Look 
here,  Paynter!    When  I  send  up  from  the  Club  for  my 
dress  things,  always  put  in  a  black  waistcoat  as  well. 
PAYNTER.  I  asked  the  mistress,  sir. 
GEORGE.  In  future — see? 

PAYNTER.  Yes,  sir.  [Signing  towards  the  window}  Shall 
I  leave  the  sunset,  sir? 

But  GEORGE  has  crossed  to  the  curtained  door; 
he  opens  it  and  says:  "Clare!"    Receiving  no 
answer,  he  goes  in.     PAYNTER  switches  up  the 
electric  light.     His  face,  turned  towards  the  cur- 
tained door,  is  apprehensive. 
GEORGE.  [Re-entering]  Where's  Mrs.  Dedmond? 
PAYNTER.  I  hardly  know,  sir. 
GEORGE.  Dined  in? 


ACT  i  THE  FUGITIVE  3 

PAYNTER.  She  had  a  mere  nothing  at  seven,  sir. 

GEORGE.  Has  she  gone  out,  since? 

PAYNTER.  Yes,  sir — that  is,  yes.  The — er — mis- 
tress was  not  dressed  at  all.  A  little  matter  of  fresh 
air,  I  think,  sir. 

GEORGE.  What  time  did  my  mother  say  they'd  be 
here  for  Bridge? 

PAYNTER.  Sir  Charles  and  Lady  Dedmond  were 
coming  at  half-past  nine;  and  Captain  Huntingdon, 
too — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fullarton  might  be  a  bit  late,  sir. 

GEORGE.  It's  that  now.  Your  mistress  said  noth- 
ing? 

PAYNTER.  Not  to  me,  sir. 

GEORGE.  Send  Burney. 

PAYNTER.  Very  good,  sir.  [He  withdraws. 

GEORGE  stares  gloomily  at  the  card  tables.  BUR- 
NEY comes  in  from  the  hall. 

GEORGE.  Did  your  mistress  say  anything  before  she 
went  out? 

BURNEY.  Yes,  sir. 

GEORGE.  Well? 

BURNEY.  I  don't  think  she  meant  it,  sir. 

GEORGE.  I  don't  want  to  know  what  you  don't 
think,  I  want  the  fact. 

BURNEY.  Yes,  sir.  The  mistress  said:  "I  hope  it'll 
be  a  pleasant  evening,  Burney!" 

GEORGE.  Oh!— Thanks. 

BURNEY.  I've  put  out  the  mistress's  things,  sir. 

GEORGE.  Ah! 

BURNEY.  Thank  you,  sir.  [She  withdraws. 


4  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  i 

GEORGE.  Damn! 

He  again  goes  to  the  curtained  door,  and  passes 
through.  PAYNTER,  coming  in  from  the  hall, 
announces:  "General  Sir  Charles  and  Lady 
Dedmond."  SIR  CHARLES  is  an  upright,  well- 
groomed,  grey-moustached,  red-faced  man  of 
sixty-seven,  with  a  keen  eye  for  molehills,  and 
none  at  all  for  mountains.  LADY  DEDMOND 
has  a  firm,  thin  face,  full  of  capability  and  de- 
cision, not  without  kindliness;  and  faintly 
weathered,  as  if  she  had  faced  many  situations 
in  many  parts  of  the  world.  She  is  fifty-five. 

PAYNTER  withdraws. 
SIR  CHARLES.  Hullo!     Where  are  they?    H'm! 

As  he  speaks,  GEORGE  re-enters. 
LADY  DEDMOND.  [Kissing    her    son]  Well,    George. 
Where's  Clare? 

GEORGE.  Afraid  she's  late. 
LADY  DEDMOND.  Are  we  early? 
GEORGE.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she's  not  in. 
LADY  DEDMOND.  Oh? 

SIR  CHARLES.  H'm!    Not — not  had  a  rumpus? 
GEORGE.  Not  particularly.  [With  the  first  real  sign  of 
feeling]  What  I  can't  stand  is  being  made  a  fool  of 
before  other  people.     Ordinary  friction  one  can  put  up 

with.      But  that 

SIR  CHARLES.  Gone  out  on  purpose?    What! 

LADY  DEDMOND.  What  was  the  trouble? 

GEORGE.  I  told  her  this  morning  you  were  coming  iq 


ACT  i  THE  FUGITIVE  5 

to  Bridge.  Appears  she'd  asked  that  fellow  Malise, 
for  music. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Without  letting  you  know? 

GEORGE.  I  believe  she  did  tell  me. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  But  surely 

GEORGE.  I  don't  want  to  discuss  it.  There's  never 
anything  in  particular.  We're  all  anyhow,  as  you 
know. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  I  see.  [She  looks  shrewdly  at  her  son] 
My  dear,  I  should  be  rather  careful  about  him,  I  think. 

SIR  CHARLES.  Who's  that? 

LADY  DEDMOND.  That  Mr.  Malise. 

SIR  CHARLES.  Oh!    That  chap! 

GEORGE.  Clare  isn't  that  sort. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  I  know.  But  she  catches  up  no- 
tions very  easily.  I  think  it's  a  great  pity  you  ever 
came  across  him. 

SIR  CHARLES.  Where  did  you  pick  him  up? 

GEORGE.  Italy — this  Spring — some  place  or  other 
where  they  couldn't  speak  English. 

SIR  CHARLES.  Um!    That's  the  worst  of  travellin'. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  I  think  you  ought  to  have  dropped 
him.  These  literary  people —  [Quietly]  From  ex- 
changing ideas  to  something  else,  isn't  very  far, 
George. 

SIR  CHARLES.  We'll  make  him  play  Bridge.  Do 
him  good,  if  he's  that  sort  of  fellow. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Is  anyone  else  coming? 

GEORGE.  Reggie  Huntingdon,  and  the  Fullartons. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  [So/%]  You  know,  my  dear  boy, 


THE  FUGITIVE 


ACT   I 


I've  been  meaning  to  speak  to  you  for  a  long  time. 
It  is  such  a  pity  you  and  Clare —     What  is  it? 

GEORGE.  God  knows!    I  try,  and  I  believe  she  does. 

SIR  CHARLES.  It's  distressin'  for  us,  you  know,  my 
dear  fellow — distressin'. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  I  know  it's  been  going  on  for  a  long 
time. 

GEORGE.  Oh!  leave  it  alone,  mother. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  But,  George,  I'm  afraid  this  man 
has  brought  it  to  a  point — put  ideas  into  her  head. 

GEORGE.  You  can't  dislike  him  more  than  I  do. 
But  there's  nothing  one  can  object  to. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Could  Reggie  Huntingdon  do  any- 
thing, nonv  he's  home?  Brothers  sometimes 

GEORGE.  I  can't  bear  my  affairs  being  messed  about 
with. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Well!  it  would  be  better  for  you 
and  Clare  to  be  supposed  to  be  out  together,  than 
for  her  to  be  out  alone.  Go  quietly  into  the  dining- 
room  and  wait  for  her. 

SIR  CHARLES.  Good!  Leave  your  mother  to  make 
up  something.  She'll  do  it! 

[A  bell  sounds. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  That  may  be  he.    Quick! 

GEORGE  goes  out  into  the  hall,  leaving  the  door 
open  in  his  haste.  LADY  DEDMOND,  following, 
calls  "Paynter!"  PAYNTER  enters. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Don't  say  anything  about  your 
master  and  mistress  being  out.  I'll  explain. 

PAYNTER.  The  master,  my  lady? 


ACT  i  THE  FUGITIVE  7 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Yes,  I  know.  But  you  needn't 
say  so.  Do  you  understand? 

PAYNTER.  [In  polite  dudgeon]  Just  so,  my  lady. 

[He  goes  out. 

SIR  CHARLES.  By  Jove!    That  fellow  smells  a  rat! 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Be  careful,  Charles! 

SIR  CHARLES.  I  should  think  so. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  I  shall  simply  say  they're  dining 
out,  and  that  we're  not  to  wait  Bridge  for  them. 

SIR  CHARLES.  [Listening]  He's  having  a  palaver 
with  that  man  of  George's. 

PAYNTER,  reappearing,  announces:  "Captain 
Huntingdon."  SIR  CHARLES  and  LADY  DED- 
MOND turn  to  him  with  relief. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Ah!    It's  you,  Reginald! 

HUNTINGDON.  [/I  tall,  fair  soldier,  of  thirty]  How 
d'you  do?  How  are  you,  sir?  What's  the  matter 
with  their  man? 

SIR  CHARLES.  What! 

HUNTINGDON.  I  was  going  into  the  dining-room  to 
get  rid  of  my  cigar;  and  he  said:  "Not  in  there,  sir. 
The  master's  there,  but  my  instructions  are  to  the 
effect  that  he's  not." 

SIR  CHARLES.  I  knew  that  fellow 

LADY  DEDMOND.  The  fact  is,  Reginald,  Clare's  out, 
and  George  is  waiting  for  her.  It's  so  important 
people  shouldn't 

HUNTINGDON.  Rather! 

They  draw  together,  as  people  do,  discussing  the 
misfortunes  of  members  of  their  families. 


8  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  i 

LADY  DEDMOND.  It's  getting  serious,  Reginald.  I 
don't  know  what's  to  become  of  them.  You  don't 
think  the  Rector— you  don't  think  your  father  would 
speak  to  Clare? 

HUNTINGDON.  Afraid  the  Governor's  hardly  well 
enough.  He  takes  anything  of  that  sort  to  heart  so 
— especially  Clare. 

Sm  CHARLES.  Can't  you  put  in  a  word  yourself? 

HUNTINGDON.  Don't  know  where  the  mischief  lies. 

SIR  CHARLES.  I'm  sure  George  doesn't  gallop  her  on 
the  road.  Very  steady-goin'  fellow,  old  George. 

HUNTINGDON.  Oh,  yes;  George  is  all  right,  sir. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  They  ought  to  have  had  children. 

HUNTINGDON.  Expect  they're  pretty  glad  now  they 
haven't.  I  really  don't  know  what  to  say,  ma'am. 

SIR  CHARLES.  Saving  your  presence,  you  know, 
Reginald,  I've  often  noticed  parsons'  daughters  grow 
up  queer.  Get  too  much  morality  and  rice  puddin'. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  [With  a  clear  look]  Charles! 

SIR  CHARLES.  What  was  she  like  when  you  were 
kids? 

HUNTINGDON.  Oh,  all  right.  Could  be  rather  a 
little  devil,  of  course,  when  her  monkey  was  up. 

SIR  CHARLES.  I'm  fond  of  her.  Nothing  she  wants 
that  she  hasn't  got,  is  there? 

HUNTINGDON.  Never  heard  her  say  so. 

SIR  CHARLES.  [Dimly]  I  don't  know  whether  old 
George  is  a  bit  too  matter  of  fact  for  her.  H'm? 

[A  short  silence. 


ACT  i  THE  FUGITIVE  9 

LADY  DEDMOND.  There's  a  Mr.  Malise  coming  here 
to-night.  I  forget  if  you  know  him. 

HUNTINGDON.  Yes.  Rather  a  thorough-bred  mon- 
grel. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  He's  literary.  [With  hesitation]  You 
— you  don't  think  he — puts — er — ideas  into  her  head? 

HUNTINGDON.  I  asked  Greyman,  the  novelist,  about 
him;  seems  he's  a  bit  of  an  Ishmaelite,  even  among 

those  fellows.     Can't  see  Clare 

LADY  DEDMOND.  No.    Only,  the  great  thing  is  that 
she   shouldn't  be  encouraged.     Listen! — It  is  her — 
coming  in.    I  can  hear  their  voices.     Gone  to  her 
room.    What   a   blessing   that   man   isn't   here   yet! 
[The  door  bell  rings]  Tt!    There  he  is,  I  expect. 
SIB  CHARLES.  What  are  we  goin'  to  say? 
HUNTINGDON.  Say  they're  dining  out,  and  we're  not 
to  wait  Bridge  for  them. 
SIB  CHARLES.  Good! 

The  door  is  opened,  and  PAYNTEB  announces 
"Mr.  Kenneth  Malise."  MALISE  enters.  He 
is  a  tall  man,  about  thirty-five,  with  a  strongly- 
marked,  dark,  irregular,  ironic  face,  and  eyes 
which  seem  to  have  needles  in  their  pupils.  His 
thick  hair  is  rather  untidy,  and  his  dress  clothes 
not  too  new. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  How  do  you  do?  My  son  and 
daughter-in-law  are  so  very  sorry.  They'll  be  here 
directly. 

[MALISE  bows  with  a  queer,  curly  smile. 
SIB  CHABLES.  [Shaking  hands]  How  d'you  do,  sir? 


10  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  i 

HUNTINGDON.  We've  met,  I  think. 

He  gives  MALISE  that  peculiar  smiling  stare, 
which  seems  to  warn  the  person  bowed  to  of  the 
sort  of  person  he  is.  MALISE'S  eyes  sparkle. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Clare  will  be  so  grieved.    One  of 
those  invitations 

MALISE.  On  the  spur  of  the  moment. 

SIR  CHARLES.  You  play  Bridge,  sir? 

MALISE.  Afraid  not! 

SIR  CHARLES.  Don't   mean   that?    Then   we   shall 
have  to  wait  for  'em. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  I  forget,  Mr.  Malise — you  write, 
don't  you? 

MALISE.  Such  is  my  weakness. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Delightful  profession. 

SIR  CHARLES.  Doesn't  tie  you!    What! 

MALISE.  Only  by  the  head. 

SIR  CHARLES.  I'm  always  thinkin'  of  writin'  my  ex- 
periences. 

MALISE.  Indeed! 

[There  is  the  sound  of  a  door  banged. 

SIR  CHARLES.  [Hastily]  You  smoke,  Mr.  Malise? 

MALISE.  Too  much. 

SIR  CHARLES.  Ah!    Must  smoke  when  you  think  a 
lot. 

MALISE.  Or  think  when  you  smoke  a  lot. 

SIR  CHARLES.  [Genially]  Don't    know    that    I    find 
that. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  [With  her  clear  look  at  him]  Charles! 
The  door  is  opened.    CLARE  DEDMOND  in  a 


ACT  i  THE  FUGITIVE  11 

cream-coloured  evening  frock  comes  in  from  the 
hall,  followed  by  GEORGE.  She  is  rather  pale, 
of  middle  height,  with  a  beautiful  figure,  wavy 
brown  hair,  full,  smiling  lips,  and  large  grey 
mesmeric  eyes,  one  of  those  women  all  vibration, 
iced  over  with  a  trained  stoicism  of  voice  and 
manner. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Well,  my  dear! 
SIR  CHARLES.  Ah!  George.     Good  dinner? 
GEORGE.  [Giving  his  hand  to  MALISE]  How  are  you? 
Clare!    Mr.  Malise! 

CLARE.  [Smiling — in  a  clear  voice  with  the  faintest 

possible  lisp]  Yes,  we  met  on  the  door-mat.        [Pause. 

SIR  CHARLES.  Deuce  you  did!      [An  awkward  pause. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  [Acidly]  Mr.   Malise  doesn't  play 

Bridge,  it  appears.     Afraid  we  shall  be  rather  in  the 

way  of  music. 

SIR  CHARLES.  What !    Aren't  we  goin'  to  get  a  game? 
[PAYNTER  has  entered  with  a  tray. 
GEORGE.  Paynter!    Take  that  table  into  the  dining- 
room. 

PAYNTER.  [Putting  down  the  tray  on  a  table  behind 
the  door]  Yes,  sir. 

MALISE.  Let  me  give  you  a  hand. 

PAYNTER  and  MALISE  carry  one  of  the  Bridge 
tables  out,  GEORGE  making  a  half-hearted  at- 
tempt to  relieve  MALISE. 
SIR  CHARLES.  Very  fine  sunset! 

Quite  softly   CLARE  begins  to  laugh.     All  look 
at  her  first  with  surprise,  then  with  offence, 


12  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  i 

then  almost  with  horror.     GEORGE  is  about  to 
go  up  to  her,  but  HUNTINGDON  heads  him  off. 
HUNTINGDON.  Bring  the  tray  along,  old  man. 

GEORGE  takes  up  the  tray,  stops  to  look  at 
CLARE,  then  allows  HUNTINGDON  to  shepherd 
him  out. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  [Without  looking  at  CLARE]  Well,  if 

we're  going  to  play,  Charles?  [She  jerks  his  sleeve. 

SIR  CHARLES.  What?  [He  marches  out. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  [Meeting  MALISE  in  the  doorway] 

Now  you  will  be  able  to  have  your  music. 

[She  follows  the  GENERAL  out . 
[CLARE  stands  perfectly  still,  with  her  eyes  closed. 
MALISE.  Delicious! 

CLARE.  [In  her  level,  clipped  voice]  Perfectly  beastly 
of  me!  I'm  so  sorry.  I  simply  can't  help  running 
amok  to-night. 

MALISE.  Never  apologize  for  being  fey.  It's  much 
too  rare. 

CLARE.  On  the  door-mat!     And  they'd  whitewashed 

me  so  beautifully!  Poor  dears!   I  wonder  if  I  ought 

[She  looks  towards  the  door. 
MALISE.  Don't  spoil  it! 

CLARE.  I'd  been  walking  up  and  down  the  Em- 
bankment for  about  three  hours.  One  does  get  des- 
perate sometimes. 

MALISE.  Thank  God  for  that! 

CLARE.  Only  makes  it  worse  afterwards.  It  seems 
so  frightful  to  them,  too. 

MALISE.  [Softly  and  suddenly,  but  with  a  difficulty 


ACT  i  THE  FUGITIVE  13 

in  finding  the  right  words]  Blessed  be  the  respectable! 
May  they  dream  of — me!  And  blessed  be  all  men  of 
the  world!  May  they  perish  of  a  surfeit  of — good 
form! 

CLARE.  I  like  that.  Oh,  won't  there  be  a  row! 
[With  a  faint  movement  of  her  shoulders]  And  the  usual 
reconciliation. 

MALISE.  Mrs.  Dedmond,  there's  a  whole  world  out- 
side yours.  Why  don't  you  spread  your  wings? 

CLARE.  My  dear  father's  a  saint,  and  he's  getting 
old  and  frail;  and  I've  got  a  sister  engaged;  and  three 
little  sisters  to  whom  I'm  supposed  to  set  a  good  ex- 
ample. Then,  I've  no  money,  and  I  can't  do  anything 
for  a  living,  except  serve  in  a  shop.  I  shouldn't  be 
free,  either;  so  what's  the  good?  Besides,  I  oughtn't 
to  have  married  if  I  wasn't  going  to  be  happy.  You 
see,  I'm  not  a  bit  misunderstood  or  ill-treated.  It's 
only 

MALISE.  Prison.    Break  out! 

CLARE.  [Turning  to  the  window}  Did  you  see  the 
sunset?  That  white  cloud  trying  to  fly  up? 

[She  holds  up  her  bare  arms,  with  a  motion  of  flight. 

MALISE.  [Admiring  her]  Ah-h-h!  [Then,  as  she  drops 
her  arms  suddenly}  Play  me  something. 

CLARE.  {Going  to  the  piano}  I'm  awfully  grateful  to 
you.  You  don't  make  me  feel  just  an  attractive  fe- 
male. I  wanted  somebody  like  that.  [Letting  her  hands 
rest  on  the  notes]  All  the  same,  I'm  glad  not  to  be 
ugly. 

MALISE.  Thank  God  for  beauty! 


14  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  i 

PAYNTER.  [Opening  the  door]  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fullarton. 
MALISE.  Who  are  they? 

CLARE.  [Rising]  She's  my  chief  pal.  He  was  in  the 
Navy. 

She  goes  forward.  MRS.  FULLARTON  is  a  rather 
tatt  woman,  with  dark  hair  and  a  quick  eye. 
He,  one  of  those  clean-shaven  naval  men  of  good 
presence  who  have  retired  from  the  sea,  but  not 
from  their  susceptibility. 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  [Kissing  CLARE,  and  taking  in 
both  MALISE  and  her  husband's  look  at  CLARE]  We've 
only  come  for  a  minute. 

CLARE.  They're  playing  Bridge  in  the  dining-room. 
Mr.  Malise  doesn't  play.  Mr.  Malise — Mrs.  Fullar- 
ton, Mr.  Fullarton. 

[They  greet. 

FULLARTON.  Most  awfully  jolly  dress,  Mrs.  Ded- 
mond. 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  Yes,  lovely,  Clare.  [FULLARTON 
abases  eyes  which  mechanically  readjust  themselves}  We 
can't  stay  for  Bridge,  my  dear;  I  just  wanted  to  see 
you  a  minute,  that's  all.  [Seeing  HUNTINGDON  coming 
in  she  speaks  in  a  low  voice  to  her  husband]  Edward,  I 
want  to  speak  to  Clare.  How  d'you  do,  Captain 
Huntingdon? 

MALISE.  I'll  say  good-night. 

He  shakes  hands  with  CLARE,  bows  to  MRS. 
FULLARTON,  and  makes  his  way  out.  HUNT- 
INGDON and  FULLARTON  foregather  in  the 
doorway. 


ACT  i  THE  FUGITIVE  15 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  How  are  things,  Clare?  [CLARE 
just  moves  her  shoulders]  Have  you  done  what  I  sug- 
gested? Your  room? 

CLARE.  No. 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  Why  not? 

CLARE.  I  don't  want  to  torture  him.  If  I  strike — 
I'll  go  clean.  I  expect  I  shall  strike. 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  My  dear!  You'll  have  the  whole 
world  against  you. 

CLARE.  Even  you  won't  back  me,  Dolly? 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  Of  course  I'll  back  you,  all  that's 
possible,  but  I  can't  invent  things. 

CLARE.  You  wouldn't  let  me  come  to  you  for  a  bit, 
till  I  could  find  my  feet? 

MRS.  FULLARTON,  taken  aback,  cannot  refrain 
from  her  glance  at  FULLARTON  automatically 
gazing  at  CLARE  while  he  talks  with  HUNT- 
INGDON. 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  Of  course — the  only  thing  is 
that 

CLARE.  [With  a  faint  smile]  It's  all  right,  Dolly. 
I'm  not  coming. 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  Oh!  don't  do  anything  desperate, 
Clare — you  are  so  desperate  sometimes.  You  ought 
to  make  terms — not  tracks. 

CLARE.  Haggle?  [She  shakes  her  head]  What  have 
I  got  to  make  terms  with?  What  he  still  wants  is 
just  what  I  hate  giving. 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  But,  Clare 


16  THE   FUGITIVE  ACT  i 

CLARE.  No,  Dolly;  even  you  don't  understand.  All 
day  and  every  day — just  as  far  apart  as  we  can  be — 
and  still —  Jolly,  isn't  it?  If  you've  got  a  soul  at  all. 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  It's  awful,  really. 

CLARE.  I  suppose  there  are  lots  of  women  who  feel 
as  I  do,  and  go  on  with  it;  only,  you  see,  I  happen  to 
have  something  in  me  that — comes  to  an  end.  Can't 
endure  beyond  a  certain  time,  ever. 

She  has  taken  a  flower  from  her  dress,  and  sud- 
denly tears  it  to  bits.  It  is  the  only  sign  of 
emotion  she  has  given. 

MRS.  FULLARTON. .[Watching]  Look  here,  my  child; 
this  won't  do.  You  must  get  a  rest.  Can't  Reggie 
take  you  with  him  to  India  for  a  bit? 

CLARE.  [Shaking  her  head]  Reggie  lives  on  his  pay. 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  [With  one  of  her  quick  looks]  That 
was  Mr.  Malise,  then? 

FULLARTON.  [Coming  towards  them]  I  say,  Mrs.  Ded- 
mond,  you  wouldn't  sing  me  that  little  song  you  sang 
the  other  night,  [He  hums]  "If  I  might  be  the  falling 
bee  and  kiss  thee  all  the  day"?  Remember? 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  "  The  falling  dew,"  Edward.  We 
simply  must  go,  Clare.  Good-night.  [She  kisses  her. 

FULLARTON.  [Taking  half -cover  between  his  wife  and 
CLARE]  It  suits  you  down  to  the  ground — that  dress. 

CLARE.  Good-night. 

HUNTINGDON  sees  them  out.  Left  alone  CLARE 
clenches  her  hands,  moves  swiftly  across  to  the 
window,  and  stands  looking  out. 

HUNTINGDON.  [Returning]  Look  here,  Clare! 


ACT  i  THE  FUGITIVE  17 

CLARE.  Well,  Reggie? 

HUNTINGDON.  This  is  working  up  for  a  mess,  old 
girl.  You  can't  do  this  kind  of  thing  with  impunity. 
No  man'll  put  up  with  it.  If  you've  got  anything 
against  George,  better  tell  me.  [CLARE  shakes  her  head} 
You  ought  to  know  I  should  stick  by  you.  What  is  it? 
Come? 

CLARE.  Get  married,  and  find  out  after  a  year  that 
she's  the  wrong  person;  so  wrong  that  you  can't  ex- 
change a  single  real  thought;  that  your  blood  runs  cold 
when  she  kisses  you — then  you'll  know. 

HUNTINGDON.  My  dear  old  girl,  I  don't  want  to  be 
a  brute;  but  it's  a  bit  difficult  to  believe  in  that,  except 
in  novels. 

CLARE.  Yes,  incredible,  when  you  haven't  tried. 

HUNTINGDON.  I  mean,  you — you  chose  him  yourself. 
No  one  forced  you  to  marry  him. 

CLARE.  It  does  seem  monstrous,  doesn't  it? 

HUNTINGDON.  My  dear  child,  do  give  us  a  reason. 

CLARE.  Look!  [She  points  out  at  the  night  and  the 
darkening  towers]  If  George  saw  that  for  the  first  time 
he'd  just  say,  "Ah,  Westminster!  Clock  Tower!  Can 
you  see  the  time  by  it?"  As  if  one  cared  where  or 
what  it  was — beautiful  like  that!  Apply  that  to  every 
— every — everything. 

HUNTINGDON.  [Staring]  George  may  be  a  bit  prosaic. 
But,  my  dear  old  girl,  if  that's  all 

CLARE.  It's  not  all — it's  nothing.  I  can't  explain, 
Reggie — it's  not  reason,  at  all;  it's — it's  like  being 
underground  in  a  damp  cell;  it's  like  knowing  you'll 


18  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  i 

never  get  out.  Nothing  coming — never  anything  com- 
ing again — never  anything. 

HUNTINGDON.  [Moved  and  puzzled]  My  dear  old 
thing;  you  mustn't  get  into  fantods  like  this.  If  it's 
like  that,  don't  think  about  it. 

CLARE.  When  every  day  and  every  night! —  Oh!  I 
know  it's  my  fault  for  having  married  him,  but  that 
doesn't  help. 

HUNTINGDON.  Look  here!  It's  not  as  if  George 
wasn't  quite  a  decent  chap.  And  it's  no  use  blinking 
things;  you  are  absolutely  dependent  on  him.  At 
home  they've  got  every  bit  as  much  as  they  can  do  to 
keep  going. 

CLAKE.  I  know. 

HUNTINGDON.  And  you've  got  to  think  of  the  girls. 
Any  trouble  would  be  very  beastly  for  them.  And 
the  poor  old  Governor  would  feel  it  awfully. 

CLARE.  If  I  didn't  know  all  that,  Reggie,  I  should 
have  gone  home  long  ago. 

HUNTINGDON.  Well,  what's  to  be  done?  If  my  pay 
would  run  to  it — but  it  simply  won't. 

CLARE.  Thanks,  old  boy,  of  course  noU 

HUNTINGDON.  Can't  you  try  to  see  George's  side  of 
it  a  bit? 

CLARE.  I  do.     Oh!  don't  let's  talk  about  it. 

HUNTINGDON.  Well,  my  child,  there's  just  one  thing 
— you  won't  go  sailing  near  the  wind,  will  you?  I 
mean,  there  are  fellows  always  on  the  lookout. 

CLARE.  "That  chap,  Malise,  you'd  better  avoid 
him!"  Why? 


ACT  i  THE  FUGITIVE  19 

HUNTINGDON.  Well!  I  don't  know  him.  He  may 
be  all  right,  but  he's  not  our  sort.  And  you're  too 
pretty  to  go  on  the  tack  of  the  New  Woman  and  that 
kind  of  thing — haven't  been  brought  up  to  it. 

CLARE.  British  home-made  summer  goods,  light  and 
attractive — don't  wear  long.  [At  the  sound  of  voices 
in  the  hall]  They  seem  to  be  going,  Reggie. 

[HUNTINGDON  looks  at  her,  vexed,  unhappy. 
HUNTINGDON.  Don't    head    for   trouble,    old    girl. 
Take  a  pull.    Bless  you!    Good-night. 

CLARE  kisses  him,  and  when  he  has  gone  turns 
away  from  the  door,  holding  Jierself  in,  refusing 
to  give  rein  to  some  outburst  of  emotion.  Sud- 
denly she  sits  down  at  the  untouched  Bridge 
table,  leaning  her  bare  elbows  on  it  and  her  chin 
on  her  hands,  quite  calm.  GEORGE  is  coming 
in.  PAYNTER  follows  him. 

CLARE.  Nothing  more  wanted,  thank  you,  Paynter. 
You  can  go  home,  and  the  maids  can  go  to  bed. 
PAYNTER.  We  are  much  obliged,  ma'am. 
CLARE.  I  ran  over  a  dog,  and  had  to  get  it  seen  to. 
PAYNTER.  Naturally,  ma'am! 
CLARE.  Good-night. 

PAYNTER.  I  couldn't  get  you  a  little  anything, 
ma'am? 

CLARE.  No,  thank  you. 

PAYNTER.  No,  ma'am.     Good-night,  ma'am. 

[He  withdraws. 

GEORGE.  You  needn't  have  gone  out  of  your  way  to 
tell  a  lie  that  wouldn't  deceive  a  guinea-pig.  {Going 


20  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  i 

up  to  her]  Pleased  with  yourself  to-night?  [CLARE 
shakes  her  head]  Before  that  fellow  Malise;  as  if  our 
own  people  weren't  enough! 

CLARE.  Is  it  worth  while  to  rag  me?  I  know  I've 
behaved  badly,  but  I  couldn't  help  it,  really! 

GEORGE.  Couldn't  help  behaving  like  a  shop-girl? 
My  God!  You  were  brought  up  as  well  as  I  was. 

CLARE.  Alas! 

GEORGE.  To  let  everybody  see  that  we  don't  get  on 
— there's  only  one  word  for  it — Disgusting! 

CLARE.  I  know. 

GEORGE.  Then  why  do  you  do  it?  I've  always  kept 
my  end  up.  Why  in  heaven's  name  do  you  behave  in 
this  crazy  way? 

CLARE.  I'm  sorry. 

GEORGE.  {With  intense  feeling]  You  like  making  a 
fool  of  me! 

CLARE.  No —  Really!  Only — I  must  break  out 
sometimes. 

GEORGE.  There  are  things  one  does  not  do. 

CLARE.  I  came  in  because  I  was  sorry. 

GEORGE.  And  at  once  began  to  do  it  again!  It 
seems  to  me  you  delight  in  rows. 

CLARE.  You'd  miss  your — reconciliations. 

GEORGE.  For  God's  sake,  Clare,  drop  cynicism! 

CLARE.  And  truth? 

GEORGE.  You  are  my  wife,  I  suppose. 

CLARE.  And  they  twain  shall  be  one — spirit. 

GEORGE.  Don't  talk  wild  nonsense! 

[There  is  silence. 


ACT  i  THE  FUGITIVE  21 

CLARE.  [Softly]  I  don't  give  satisfaction.  Please  give 
me  notice! 

GEORGE.  Pish! 

CLARE.  Five  years,  and  four  of  them  like  this!  I'm 
sure  we've  served  our  time.  Don't  you  really  think 
we  might  get  on  better  together — if  I  went  away? 

GEORGE.  I've  told  you  I  won't  stand  a  separation 
for  no  real  reason,  and  have  your  name  bandied  about 
all  over  London.  I  have  some  primitive  sense  of 
honour. 

CLARE.  You  mean  your  name,  don't  you? 

GEORGE.  Look  here.  Did  that  fellow  Malise  put  all 
this  into  your  head? 

CLARE.  No;  my  own  evil  nature. 

GEORGE.  I  wish  the  deuce  we'd  never  met  him. 
Comes  of  picking  up  people  you  know  nothing  of.  I 
distrust  him — and  his  looks — and  his  infernal  satiric 
way.  He  can't  even  dress  decently.  He's  not — good 
form. 

CLARE.  [With  a  touch  of  rapture]  Ah-h! 

GEORGE.  Why  do  you  let  him  come?  What  d'you 
find  interesting  in  him? 

CLARE.  A  mind. 

GEORGE.  Deuced  funny  one!  To  have  a  mind — as 
you  call  it — it's  not  necessary  to  talk  about  Art  and 
Literature. 

CLARE.  We  don't. 

GEORGE.  Then  what  do  you  talk  about — your  minds? 
[CLARE  looks  at  him]  Will  you  answer  a  straight  ques- 
tion? Is  he  falling  in  love  with  you? 


22  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  i 

CLARE.  You  had  better  ask  him. 

GEORGE.  I  tell  you  plainly,  as  a  man  of  the  world, 
I  don't  believe  in  the  guide,  philosopher  and  friend 
business. 

CLARE.  Thank  you. 

A  silence.     CLARE  suddenly  clasps  her  hands  be- 
hind her  head. 

CLARE.  Let  me  go!  You'd  be  much  happier  with 
any  other  woman. 

GEORGE.  Clare! 

CLARE.  I  believe — I'm  sure  I  could  earn  my  living. 
Quite  serious. 

GEORGE.  Are  you  mad? 

CLARE.  It  has  been  done. 

GEORGE.  It  will  never  be  done  by  you — understand 
that! 

CLARE.  It  really  is  time  we  parted.  I'd  go  clean  out 
of  your  life.  I  don't  want  your  support  unless  I'm 
giving  you  something  for  your  money. 

GEORGE.  Once  for  all,  I  don't  mean  to  allow  you  to 
make  fools  of  us  both. 

CLARE.  But  if  we  are  already!  Look  at  us.  We  go 
on,  and  on.  We're  a  spectacle! 

GEORGE.  That's  not  my  opinion;  nor  the  opinion  of 
anyone,  so  long  as  you  behave  yourself. 

CLARE.  That  is — behave  as  you  think  right. 

GEORGE.  Clare,  you're  pretty  riling. 

CLARE.  I  don't  want  to  be  horrid.  But  I  am  in 
earnest  this  time. 


ACT  i  THE  FUGITIVE  23 

GEORGE.  So  am  I. 

[CLARE  turns  to  the  curtained  door. 

GEORGE.  Look  here!  I'm  sorry.  God  knows  I  don't 
want  to  be  a  brute.  I  know  you're  not  happy. 

CLARE.  And  you — are  you  happy? 

GEORGE.  I  don't  say  I  am.    But  why  can't  we  be? 

CLARE.  I  see  no  reason,  except  that  you  are  you, 
and  I  am  I. 

GEORGE.  We  can  try. 

CLARE.  I  have — haven't  you? 

GEORGE.  We  used 

CLARE.  I  wonder! 

GEORGE.  You  know  we  did. 

CLARE.  Too  long  ago — if  ever. 

GEORGE  [Coming  closer]  I — still 

CLARE.  [Making  a  barrier  of  her  hand]  You  know 
that's  only  cupboard  love. 

GEORGE.  We've  got  to  face  the  facts. 

CLARE.  I  thought  I  was. 

GEORGE.  The  facts  are  that  we're  married — for 
better  or  worse,  and  certain  things  are  expected  of 
us.  It's  suicide  for  you,  and  folly  for  me,  in  my  posi- 
tion, to  ignore  that.  You  have  all  you  can  reasonably 
want;  and  I  don't — don't  wish  for  any  change.  If  you 
could  bring  anything  against  me — if  I  drank,  or 
knocked  about  town,  or  expected  too  much  of  you. 
I'm  not  unreasonable  in  any  way,  that  I  can  see. 

CLARE.  Well,  I  think  we've  talked  enough. 

[She  again  moves  toivards  the  curtained  door. 

GEORGE.  Look  here,  Clare;  you  don't  mean  you're 


24  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  i 

expecting  me  to  put  up  with  the  position  of  a  man 
who's  neither  married  nor  unmarried?     That's  simple 
purgatory.     You  ought  to  know. 
CLARE.  Yes.     I  haven't  yet,  have  I? 
GEORGE.  Don't  go  like  that!    Do  you  suppose  we're 
the  only  couple  who've  found  things  aren't  what  they 
thought,  and  have  to  put  up  with  each  other  and  make 
the  best  of  it. 

CLARE.  Not  by  thousands. 
GEORGE.  Well,  why  do  you  imagine  they  do  it? 
CLARE.  I  don't  know. 

GEORGE.  From  a  common  sense  of  decency. 
CLARE.  Very! 

GEORGE.  By  Jove!  You  can  be  the  most  maddening 
thing  in  all  the  world!  [Taking  up  a  pack  of  cards,  he 
lets  them  fall  with  a  long  slithering  flutter}  After  behaving 
as  you  have  this  evening,  you  might  try  to  make  some 
amends,  I  should  think. 

CLARE  moves  her  head  from  side  to  side,  as  if  in 
sight  of  something  she  could  not  avoid.    He 
puts  his  hand  on  her  arm. 
CLARE.  No,  no — no! 

GEORGE.  [Dropping  his  hand]  Can't  you  make  it  up? 
CLARE.  I  don't  feel  very  Christian. 

She  opens  the  door,  passes  through,  and  closes  it 
behind  her.  GEORGE  steps  quickly  towards  it, 
stops,  and  turns  back  into  the  room.  He  goes 
to  the  window  and  stands  looking  out ;  shuts  it 
with  a  bang,  and  again  contemplates  the  door. 
Moving  forward,  he  rests  his  hand  on  the  de- 


ACT  i  THE  FUGITIVE  25 

serted  card  table,  clutching  its  edge,  and  mut- 
tering. Then  he  crosses  to  the  door  into  the  hatt 
and  switches  off  the  light.  He  opens  the  door  to 
go  out,  then  stands  again  irresolute  in  the  dark- 
ness and  heaves  a  heavy  sigh.  Suddenly  he  mut- 
ters: "No!"  Crosses  resolutely  back  to  the 
curtained  door,  and  opens  it.  In  the  gleam  oj 
light  CLARE  is  standing,  unhooking  a  necklet. 
He  goes  in,  shutting  the  door  behind  him  with  a 
thud. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT    II 

THE  SCENE  is  a  large,  whitewashed,  disordered  room, 
whose  outer  door  opens  on  to  a  corridor  and  stairway. 
Doors  on  either  side  lead  to  other  rooms.  On  the 
walls  are  unframed  reproductions  of  fine  pictures, 
secured  with  tintacks.  An  old  wine-coloured  arm- 
chair of  low  and  comfortable  appearance,  near  the 
centre  of  the  room,  is  surrounded  by  a  litter  of  manu- 
scripts, books,  ink,  pens  and  newspapers,  as  though 
some  one  had  already  been  up  to  his  neck  in  labour, 
though  by  a  grandfather's  clock  it  is  only  eleven. 
On  a  smallish  table  close  by,  are  sheets  of  paper, 
cigarette  ends,  and  two  claret  bottles.  There  are 
many  books  on  shelves,  and  on  the  floor,  an  over- 
flowing pile,  whereon  rests  a  soft  hat,  and  a  black 
knobby  stick.  MALISE  sits  in  his  armchair,  garbed 
in  trousers,  dressing-gown,  and  slippers,  unshaved 
and  uncoUared,  writing.  He  pauses,  smiles,  lights 
a  cigarette,  and  tries  the  rhythm  of  the  last  sentence, 
holding  up  a  sheet  of  quarto  MS. 

MALISE.  "Not  a  word,  not  a  whisper  of  Liberty  from 
all  those  excellent  frock-coated  gentlemen — not  a  sign, 
not  a  grimace.  Only  the  monumental  silence  of  their 
profound  deference  before  triumphant  Tyranny." 

While  he  speaks,  a  substantial  woman,  a  little 
over  middle-age,  in  old  dark  clothes  and  a  black 
27 


28  THE   FUGITIVE  ACT  n 

straw  hat,  enters  from  the  corridor.  She  goes 
to  a  cupboard,  brings  out  from  it  an  apron  and 
a  Bissell  broom.  Her  movements  are  slow  and 
imperturbable,  as  if  she  had  muck  time  befor" 
her.  Her  face  is  broad  and  dark,  with  Chinese 
eyebrows. 

MALISE.  Wait,  Mrs.  Miler! 
MRS.  MILER.  I'm  gettin'  be'ind'and,  sir. 

She    comes    and    stands    before    him.     MALISE 

writes. 

MRS.  MILER.  There's  a  man  'angin'  about  below. 
MALISE  looks  up  ;  seeing  that  she  has  roused  his 
attention,  she  stops.     But  as  soon  as  he  is  about 
to  write  again,  goes  on. 

MRS.  MILER.  I  see  him  first  yesterday  afternoon. 
I'd  just  been  out  to  get  meself  a  pennyworth  o'  soda,  an' 
as  I  come  in  I  passed  'im  on  the  second  floor,  lookin*  at 
me  with  an  air  of  suspicion.  I  thought  to  meself  at  the 
time,  I  thought:  You're  a  'andy  sort  of  'ang-dog  man. 
MALISE.  Well? 

MRS.  MILER.  Well — peekin'  down  through  the  bal- 
usters, I  see  'im  lookin'  at  a  photograft.  That's  a 
funny  place,  I  thinks,  to  look  at  pictures — it's  so  dark 
there,  ye  'ave  to  use  yer  eyesight.  So  I  giv'  a  scrape 
with  me  'eel  [She  illustrates]  an'  he  pops  it  in  his 
pocket,  and  puts  up  'is  'and  to  knock  at  number  three. 
I  goes  down  an'  I  says:  "You  know  there's  no  one  lives 
there,  don't  yer?"  "Ah!"  'e  says  with  an  air  of  inner- 
cence,  "I  wants  the  name  of  Smithers."  "Oh!"  I  says, 
"try  round  the  corner,  number  ten."  "Ah!"  'e  says, 


ACT  n  THE  FUGITIVE  £9 

tactful,  "much  obliged."  "Yes,"  I  says,  "you'll  find 
'im  in  at  this  time  o'  day.  Good  evenin'!"  And  I 
thinks  to  meself  [She  closes  one  eye]  Rats!  There's  a 
good  many  corners  hereabouts. 

MALISE.  [With  detached  appreciation]  Very  good, 
Mrs.  Miler. 

MKS.  MILER.  So  this  mornin',  there  e'  was  again  on 
the  first  floor  with  'is  'and  raised,  pretendin'  to  knock 
at  number  two.  "Oh!  you're  still  lookin'  for  'im?"  I 
says,  lettin'  him  see  I  was  'is  grandmother.  "Ah!"  'e 
says,  affable,  "you  misdirected  me;  it's  here  I've  got 
my  business."  "That's  lucky,"  I  says,  "cos  nobody 
lives  there  neither.  Good  mornin'!"  And  I  come 
straight  up.  If  you  want  to  see  'im  at  work  you've 
only  to  go  downstairs,  'e'll  be  on  the  ground  floor  by 
now,  pretendin'  to  knock  at  number  one.  Wonderful 
resource! 

MALISE.  What's  he  like,  this  gentleman? 

MRS.  MILER.  Just  like  the  men  you  see  on  the  front 
page  o'  the  daily  papers.  Nasty,  smooth-lookin'  feller, 
with  one  o'  them  billycock  hats  you  can't  abide. 

MALISE.  Isn't  he  a  dun? 

MRS.  MILER.  They  don't  be'ave  like  that;  you  ought 
to  know,  sir.  He's  after  no  good.  [Then,  after  a  little 
pause]  Ain't  he  to  be  put  a  stop  to?  If  I  took  me  time 
I  could  get  'im,  innercent-like,  with  a  jug  o'  water. 

[MALISE,  smiling,  shakes  his  head. 

MALISE.  You  can  get  on  now;  I'm  going  to  shave. 
He  looks  at  the  clock,  and  passes  out  into  the  inner 
room.     MRS.  MILER  gazes  round  her,  pins  up 


30  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  n 

her  skirt,  sits  down  in  the  armchair,  takes  off 
her  hat  and  puts  it  on  the  table,  and  slowly  rolls 
up  her  sleeves;  then  with  her  hands  on  her  knees 
she  rests.  There  is  a  soft  knock  on  the  door. 
She  gets  up  leisurely  and  moves  fiat-footed  to- 
wards it.  The  door  being  opened  CLARE  is 
revealed. 

CLARE.  Is  Mr.  Malise  in? 
MRS.  MILER.  Yes.    But  Vs  dressin'. 
CLARE.  Oh. 

MRS.  MILER.  Won't  take  'im  long.     What  name? 
CLARE.  Would  you  say — a  lady. 
MRS.  MILER.  It's  against  the  rules.     But  if  you'll 
sit  down  a  moment  I'll  see  what  I  can  do.     [She  brings 
forward  a  chair  and  rubs  it  with  her  apron.     Then  goes 
to  the  door  of  the  inner  room  and  speaks  through  it]  A 
lady  to  see  you.  [Returning  she  removes  some  cigarette 
ends]  This  is  my  hour.    I  shan't  make  much  dust. 
[Noting  CLARE'S  eyebrows  raised  at  the  debris  round  the 
armchair]  I'm  particular  about  not  disturbin*  things. 
CLARE.  I'm  sure  you  are. 
MRS.  MILER.  He  likes  'is  'abits  regular. 

Making  a  perfunctory  pass  with  the  Bissell  broom, 
she  runs  it  to  the  cupboard,  comes  back  to  the 
table,  takes  up  a  bottle  and  holds  it  to  the  light ; 
finding  it  empty,  she  turns  it  upside  down  and 
drops  it  into  the  wastepaper  basket;  then,  hold- 
ing up  the  other  bottle,  and  finding  it  not  empty, 
she  corks  it  and  drops  it  into  the  fold  of  her 
skirt. 


ACT  it  THE  FUGITIVE  31 

MRS.  MILER.  He  takes  his  claret  fresh-opened — not 
like  these  'ere  bawgwars. 

CLARE.  [Rising]  I  think  I'll  come  back  later. 
MRS.  MILER.  Mr.  Malise  is  not  in  my  confidence. 
We  keep  each  other  to  ourselves.     Perhaps  you'd  like 
to  read  the  paper;  he  has  it  fresh  every  mornin' — the 
Westminister. 

She  plucks  that  journal  from  out  of  the  armchair 

and  hands  it  to  CLARE,  who  sits  down  again 

unhappily  to  brood.     MRS.  MILER  makes   a 

pass  or  two  with  a  very  dirty  duster,  then  stands 

still.   No  longer  hearing  sounds,  CLARE  looks  up. 

MRS.  MILER.  I   wouldn't    interrupt   yer   with    my 

workin,'  but  'e  likes  things  clean.   [At  a  sound  from  the 

inner  room]  That's  'im;  'e's  cut  'isself!    I'll  just  take 

'im  the  tobaccer! 

She  lifts  a  green  paper  screw  of  tobacco  from  the 
debris  round  the  armchair  and  taps  on  the  door. 
It  opens.  CLARE  moves  restlessly  across  the 
room. 

MRS.  MILER.  [Speaking  into  the  room]  The  tobaccer. 
The  lady's  waitin'. 

CLARE  has  stopped  before  a  reproduction  of 
Titian's  picture  "Sacred  and  Profane  Love." 
MRS.  MILER  stands  regarding  her  with  a  Chi- 
nese smile.  MALISE  enters,  a  thread  of  to- 
bacco still  hanging  to  his  cheek. 

MALISE.  [Taking  MRS.  MILER'S  hat  off  the  table  and 
handing  it  to  her]  Do  the  other  room. 

[Enigmatically  she  goes. 
MALISE.  Jolly  of  you  to  come.     Can  I  do  anything? 


32  THE   FUGITIVE  ACT  u 

CLARE.  I  want  advice — badly. 

MALISE.  What!    Spreading  your  wings? 

CLARE.  Yes. 

MALISE.  Ah!  Proud  to  have  given  you  that  advice. 
When? 

CLARE.  The  morning  after  you  gave  it  me  ... 

MALISE.  Well? 

CLARE.  I  went  down  to  my  people.  I  knew  it  would 
hurt  my  Dad  frightfully,  but  somehow  I  thought  I 
could  make  him  see.  No  good.  He  was  awfully  sweet, 
only — he  couldn't. 

MALISE.  [Softly]  We  English  love  liberty  in  those 
who  don't  belong  to  us.  Yes. 

CLARE.  It  was  horrible.  There  were  the  children — 
and  my  old  nurse.  I  could  never  live  at  home  now. 

They'd  think  I  was .  Impossible — utterly!  I'd 

made  up  my  mind  to  go  back  to  my  owner —  And  then 
— he  came  down  himself.  I  couldn't  stand  it.  To  be 
hauled  back  and  begin  all  over  again;  I  simply  couldn't. 
I  watched  for  a  chance;  and  ran  to  the  station,  and 
came  up  to  an  hotel. 

MALISE.  Bravo! 

CLARE.  I  don't  know — no  pluck  this  morning!  You 
see,  I've  got  to  earn  my  living — no  money;  only  a  few 
things  I  can  sell.  All  yesterday  I  was  walking  about, 
looking  at  the  women.  How  does  anyone  ever  get  a 
chance? 

MALISE.  Sooner  than  you  should  hurt  his  dignity 
by  working,  your  husband  would  pension  you  off. 

CLARE.  If  I  don't  go  back  to  him  I  couldn't  take  it. 

MALISE.  Good! 


ACT  n  THE  FUGITIVE  33 

CLARE.  I've  thought  of  nursing,  but  it's  a  long  train- 
ing, and  I  do  so  hate  watching  pain.  The  fact  is,  I'm 
pretty  hopeless;  can't  even  do  art  work.  I  came  to 
ask  you  about  the  stage. 

MALISE.  Have  you  ever  acted?  [CLARE  shakes  her 
head]  You  mightn't  think  so,  but  I've  heard  there's  a 
prejudice  in  favour  of  training.  There's  Chorus — I 
don't  recommend  it.  How  about  your  brother? 

CLARE.  My  brother's  got  nothing  to  spare,  and  he 
wants  to  get  married;  and  he's  going  back  to  India  in 
September.  The  only  friend  I  should  care  to  bother  is 
Mrs.  Fullarton,  and  she's — got  a  husband. 

MALISE.  I  remember  the  gentleman. 

CLARE.  Besides,  I  should  be  besieged  day  and  night 
to  go  back.  I  must  lie  doggo  somehow. 

MALISE.  It  makes  my  blood  boil  to  think  of  women 
like  you.  God  help  all  ladies  without  money. 

CLARE.  I  expect  I  shall  have  to  go  back. 

MALISE.  No,  no!  We  shall  find  something.  Keep 
your  soul  alive  at  all  costs.  What!  let  him  hang  on  to 
you  till  you're  nothing  but — emptiness  and  ache,  till 
you  lose  even  the  power  to  ache.  Sit  in  his  drawing- 
room,  pay  calls,  play  Bridge,  go  out  with  him  to  din- 
ners, return  to — duty;  and  feel  less  and  less,  and  be  less 
and  less,  and  so  grow  old  and — die! 

[The  bell  rings. 

MALISE.  [Looking  at  the  door  in  doubt}  By  the  way — 
he'd  no  means  of  tracing  you? 

[She  shakes  her  head. 
[The  bell  rings  again. 


34  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  n 

MALISE.  Was  there  a  man  on  the  stairs  as  you 
came  up? 

CLABE.  Yes.    Why? 

MALISE.  He's  begun  to  haunt  them,  I'm  told. 
CLARE.  Oh!    But  that  would  mean  they  thought  I 
— oh!  no! 

MALISE.  Confidence  in  me  is  not  excessive. 
CLABE.  Spying! 

MALISE.  Will  you  go  in  there  for  a  minute?  Or 
shall  we  let  them  ring — or — what?  It  may  not  be 
anything,  of  course. 

CLARE.  I'm  not  going  to  hide. 

[The  bell  rings  a  third  time. 

MALISE.  [Opening  the  door  of  the  inner  room]  Mrs. 
Miler,  just  see  who  it  is;  and  then  go,  for  the  present. 
MRS.  MILER  comes  out  with  her  hat  on,  passes 
enigmatically  to  the  door,  and  opens  it.     A 
man's  voice  says:  "Mr.  Malise?    Would  you 
give  him  these  cards?" 
MRS.  MILER.  [Re-entering]  The  cards. 
MALISE.  Mr.    Robert   Twisden.    Sir    Charles   and 
Lady  Dedmond.  [He  looks  at  CLARE. 

CLARE.  [Her  face  scornful  and  unmoved]  Let  them 
come. 

MALISE.  [To  MRS.  MILER]  Show  them  in! 

TWISDEN  enters — a  clean-shaved,  shrewd-looking 
man,  with  a  fighting  underlip,  followed  by  SIR 
CHARLES  and  LADY  DEDMOND.  MRS.  MILER 
goes.  There  are  no  greetings. 


ACT  n  THE   FUGITIVE  35 

TWISDEN.  Mr.  Malise?  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Ded- 
mond?  Had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  at  your  wed- 
ding. [CLARE  inclines  her  head]  I  am  Mr.  George  Ded- 
mond's  solicitor,  sir.  I  wonder  if  you  would  be  so  very 
kind  as  to  let  us  have  a  few  words  with  Mrs.  Dedmond 
alone? 

At  a  nod  from  CLARE,  MALISE  passes  into  the 
inner  room,  and  shuts  the  door.     A  silence. 

SIR  CHARLES.  [Suddenly]  What! 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Mr.  Twisden,  will  you ? 

TWISDEN.  [Uneasy]  Mrs.  Dedmond 1  must  apol- 
ogize, but  you — you  hardly  gave  us  an  alternative,  did 
you?  [He  pauses  for  an  answer,  and,  not  getting  one, 
goes  on]  Your  disappearance  has  given  your  husband 
great  anxiety.  Really,  my  dear  madam,  you  must  for- 
give us  for  this — attempt  to  get  into  communication. 

CLARE.  Why  did  you  spy  ,iere? 

SIR  CHARLES.  No,  no!  Nobody's  spied  on  you. 
What! 

TWISDEN.  I'm  afraid  the  answer  is  that  we  appear 
to  have  been  justified.  {At  the  expression  on  CLARE'S 
face  he  goes  on  hastily}  Now,  Mrs.  Dedmond,  I'm  a 
lawyer  and  I  know  that  appearances  are  misleading. 
Don't  think  I'm  unfriendly;  I  wish  you  well.  [CLARE 
raises  her  eyes.  Moved  by  that  look,  which  is  exactly  as 
if  she  had  said:  "I  have  no  friends,"  he  hurries  on]  What 
we  want  to  say  to  you  is  this :  Don't  let  this  split  go  on ! 
Don't  commit  yourself  to  what  you'll  bitterly  regret. 
Just  tell  us  what's  the  matter.  I'm  sure  it  can  be  put 
straight. 


36  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  n 

CLARE.  I  have  nothing  against  my  husband — it  was 
quite  unreasonable  to  leave  him. 

TWISDEN.  Come,  that's  good. 

CLARE.  Unfortunately,  there's  something  stronger 
than  reason. 

TWISDEN.  I  don't  know  it,  Mrs.  Dedmond. 

CLARE.  No? 

TWISDEN.  [Disconcerted]  Are  you — you  oughtn't  to 
take  a  step  without  advice,  in  your  position. 

CLARE.  Nor  with  it? 

TWISDEN.  [Approaching  her]  Come,  now;  isn't  there 
anything  you  feel  you'd  like  to  say — that  might  help 
to  put  matters  straight? 

CLARE.  I  don't  think  so,  thank  you. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  You  must  see,  Clare,  that 

TWISDEN.  In  your  position,  Mrs.  Dedmond — a  beau- 
tiful young  woman  without  money.  I'm  quite  blunt. 
This  is  a  hard  world.  Should  be  awfully  sorry  if  any- 
thing goes  wrong. 

CLARE.  And  if  I  go  back? 

TWISDEN.  Of  two  evils,  if  it  be  so — choose  the  least! 

CLARE.  lam  twenty -six;  he  is  thirty-two.  We  can't 
reasonably  expect  to  die  for  fifty  years. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  That's  morbid,  Clare. 

TWISDEN.  What's  open  to  you  if  you  don't  go  back  ? 
Come,  what's  your  position?  Neither  fish,  flesh,  nor 
fowl;  fair  game  for  everybody.  Believe  me,  Mrs. 
Dedmond,  for  a  pretty  woman  to  strike,  as  it  appears 
you're  doing,  simply  because  the  spirit  of  her  marriage 
has  taken  flight,  is  madness.  You  must  know  that  no 


ACT  n  THE  FUGITIVE  37 

one  pays  attention  to  anything  but  facts.  If  now — 
excuse  me — you — you  had  a  lover,  [His  eyes  travel 
round  the  room  and  again  rest  on  her]  you  would,  at  all 
events,  have  some  ground  under  your  feet,  some  sort 
of  protection,  but  [He  pauses]  as  you  have  not — you've 
none. 

CLARE.  Except  what  I  make  myself. 

SIR  CHARLES.  Good  God! 

TWISDEN.  Yes!  Mrs.  Dedmond!  There's  the  bed- 
rock difficulty.  As  you  haven't  money,  you  should 
never  have  been  pretty.  You're  up  against  the  world, 
and  you'll  get  no  mercy  from  it.  We  lawyers  see  too 
much  of  that.  I'm  putting  it  brutally,  as  a  man  of  the 
world. 

CLARE.  Thank  you.  Do  you  think  you  quite  grasp 
the  alternative? 

TWISDEN.  [Taken  aback]  But,  my  dear  young  lady, 
there  are  two  sides  to  every  contract.  After  all,  your 
husband's  fulfilled  his. 

CLARE.  So  have  I  up  till  now.  I  shan't  ask  any- 
thing from  him — nothing — do  you  understand? 

LADY  DEDMOND.  But,  my  dear,  you  must  live. 

TWISDEN.  Have  you  ever  done  any  sort  of  work? 

CLARE.  Not  yet. 

TWISDEN.  Any  conception  of  the  competition  now- 
adays? 

CLARE.  I  can  try. 

[TWISDEN,  looking  at  her,  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

CLARE.  [Her  composure  a  little  broken  by  that  look] 
It's  real  to  me — this — you  see! 


38  THE   FUGITIVE  ACT  n 

SIB  CHARLES.  But,  my  dear  girl,  what  the  devil's  to 
become  of  George? 

CLARE.  He  can  do  what  he  likes — it's  nothing  to  me. 

TWISDEN.  Mrs.  Dedmond,  I  say  without  hesitation 
you've  no  notion  of  what  you're  faced  with,  brought 
up  to  a  sheltered  life  as  you've  been.  Do  realize  that 
you  stand  at  the  parting  of  the  ways,  and  one  leads 
into  the  wilderness. 

CLARE.  Which? 

TWISDEN.  [Glancing  at  the  door  through  which  MALISE 
has  gone]  Of  course,  if  you  want  to  play  at  wild  asses 
there  are  plenty  who  will  help  you. 

SIR  CHARLES.    By  Gad!    Yes! 

CLARE.  I  only  want  to  breathe. 

TWISDEN.  Mrs.  Dedmond,  go  back!  You  can  now. 
It  will  be  too  late  soon.  There  are  lots  of  wolves  about. 

[Again  he  looks  at  the  door. 

CLARE.  But  not  where  you  think.  You  say  I  need 
advice.  I  came  here  for  it. 

TWISDEN.  [With  a  curiously  expressive  shrug]  In  that 
case  I  don't  know  that  I  can  usefully  stay. 

[He  goes  to  tfie  outer  door. 

CLARE.  Please  don't  have  me  followed  when  I  leave 
here.  Please ! 

LADY  DEDMOND.  George  is  outside,  Clare. 

CLARE.  I  don't  wish  to  see  him.  By  what  right 
have  you  come  here?  [She  goes  to  the  door  through  which 
MALISE  has  passed,  opens  it,  and  says]  Please  come  in, 
Mr.  Malise. 

MALISE  enters. 


ACT  n  THE  FUGITIVE  39 

TWISDEN.  I  am  sorry.  [Glancing  at  MALISE,  he  in- 
clines his  head}  I  am  sorry.  Good  morning.  [He  goes. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Mr.  Malise,  I'm  sure,  will  see 

CLARE.  Mr.  Malise  will  stay  here,  please,  in  his  own 
room.  [MALISE  bows. 

SIR  CHARLES.  My  dear  girl,  'pon  my  soul,  you  know, 
I  can't  grasp  your  line  of  thought  at  all ! 

CLARE.  No? 

LADY  DEDMOND.  George  is  most  willing  to  take  up 
things  just  as  they  were  before  you  left. 

CLARE.  Ah! 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Quite  frankly — what  is  it  you 
want? 

CLARE.  To  be  left  alone.  Quite  frankly,  he  made  a 
mistake  to  have  me  spied  on. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  But,  my  good  girl,  if  you'd  let  us 
know  where  you  were,  like  a  reasonable  being.  You 
can't  possibly  be  left  to  yourself  without  money  or 
position  of  any  kind.  Heaven  knows  what  you'd  be 
driven  to!  [She  looks  at  MALISE. 

MALISE.  [Softly]  Delicious! 

SIR  CHARLES.  You  will  be  good  enough  to  repeat 
that  out  loud,  sir. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Charles!  Clare,  you  must  know 
this  is  all  a  fit  of  spleen;  your  duty  and  your  interest 
— marriage  is  sacred,  Clare. 

CLARE.  Marriage!  My  marriage  has  become  the — 
the  reconciliation — of  two  animals — one  of  them  un- 
willing. That's  all  the  sanctity  there  is  about  it. 

SIR  CHARLES.  What! 


40  THE   FUGITIVE  ACT  u 

LADY  DEDMOND.  You  ought  to  be  horribly  ashamed. 

CLARE.  Of  the  fact — I  am. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  [Darting  a  glance  at  MALISE]  If  we 
are  to  talk  this  out,  it  must  be  in  private. 

MALISE.  [To  CLARE]  Do  you  wish  me  to  go? 

CLARE.  No. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  [At  MALISE]  I  should  have  thought 

ordinary    decent    feeling Good    heavens,    girl! 

Can't  you  see  that  you're  being  played  with? 

CLARE.  If  you  insinuate  anything  against  Mr.  Ma- 
lise,  you  lie. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  If  you  will  do  these  things — come 
to  a  man's  rooms 

CLARE.  I  came  to  Mr.  Malise  because  he's  the  only 
person  I  know  with  imagination  enough  to  see  what 
my  position  is;  I  came  to  him  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago, 
for  the  first  time,  for  definite  advice,  and  you  instantly 
suspect  him.  That  is  disgusting. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  [Frigidly]  Is  this  the  natural  place 
for  me  to  find  my  son's  wife? 

CLARE.  His  woman. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Will  you  listen  to  Reginald? 

CLARE.  I  have. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Haven't  you  any  religious  sense  at 
all,  Clare? 

CLARE.  None,  if  it's  religion  to  live  as  we  do. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  It's  terrible — this  state  of  mind! 
It's  really  terrible! 

CLARE  breaks  into  the  soft  laugh  of  the  other  eve- 
ning.    As   if  galvanized    by    the    sound,   SIB 


ACT  n  THE  FUGITIVE  41 

CHARLES  comes  to  life  out  of  the  transfixed 
beivilderment  with  which  he  has  been  listening. 

SIR  CHARLES.  For  God's  sake  don't  laugh  like  that! 

[CLARE  stops. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  [With  real  feeling}  For  the  sake  of 
the  simple  right,  Clare! 

CLARE.  Right?  Whatever  else  is  right — our  life  is 
not.  [She  puts  her  hand  on  her  heart]  I  swear  before 
God  that  I've  tried  and  tried.  I  swear  before  God, 
that  if  I  believed  we  could  ever  again  love  each  other 
only  a  little  tiny  bit,  I'd  go  back.  I  swear  before  God 
that  I  don't  want  to  hurt  anybody. 

LADY  DEDMOND.  But  you  are  hurting  everybody. 
Do — do  be  reasonable! 

CLARE.  [Losing  control]  Can't  you  see  that  I'm 
fighting  for  all  my  life  to  come — not  to  be  buried  alive 
— not  to  be  slowly  smothered.  Look  at  me!  I'm  not 
wax — I'm  flesh  and  blood.  And  you  want  to  prison 
me  for  ever — body  and  soul. 

[They  stare  at  her. 

SIR  CHARLES.  [Suddenly]  By  Jove!  I  don't  know, 
I  don't  know!  What! 

LADY  DEDMOND.  [To  MALISE]  If  you  have  any  de- 
cency left,  sir,  you  will  allow  my  son,  at  all  events,  to 
speak  to  his  wife  alone.  [Beckoning  to  her  husband] 
We'll  wait  below. 

SIR  CHARLES.  I — I  want  to  speak.  [To  CLARE]  My 
dear,  if  you  feel  like  this,  I  can  only  say  as  a — as  a 
gentleman 

LADY  DEDMOND.  Charles! 


42  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  n 

SIR  CHARLES.  Let  me  alone!  I  can  only  say  that 
— damme,  I  don't  know  that  I  can  say  anything! 

He    looks    at   her  very  grieved,   then  turns  and 
marcfies    out,  followed    by    LADY    DEDMOND, 
whose  voice  is  heard  without,  answered  by  his: 
"What!"     In    the    doorway,    as    they    pass, 
GEORGE  is  standing;  he  comes  in. 
GEORGE.  [Going  up  to  CLARE,  who  has  recovered  all 
her  self-control]  Will  you  come  outside  and  speak  to  me? 
CLARE.  No. 

GEORGE   glances    at    MALISE,    who   is   leaning 

against  the  wall  with  folded  arms. 
GEORGE.  [In  a  low  voice]  Clare! 
CLARE.  Well! 

GEORGE.  You  try  me  pretty  high,  don't  you,  forcing 
me  to  come  here,  and  speak  before  this  fellow?  Most 
men  would  think  the  worst,  finding  you  like  this. 

CLARE.  You  need  not  have  come — or  thought  at  all. 
GEORGE.  Did  you  imagine  I  was  going  to  let  you 

vanish  without  an  effort 

CLARE.  To  save  me? 

GEORGE.  For  God's  sake  be  just!    I've  come  here 
to  say  certain  things.     If  you  force  me  to  say  them 
before  him — on  your  head  be  it!    Will  you  appoint 
somewhere  else? 
CLARE.  No. 
GEORGE.  Why  not? 

CLARE.  I  know  all  those  "certain  things."  "You 
must  come  back.  It  is  your  duty.  You  have  no 
money.  Your  friends  won't  help  you.  You  can't  earn 


ACT  n  THE  FUGITIVE  43 

your  living.  You  are  making  a  scandal."  You;  might 
even  say  for  the  moment:  "Your  room  shall  be  re- 
spected." 

GEORGE.  Well,  it's  true  and  you've  no  answer. 

CLARE.  Oh!  [Suddenly]  Our  life's  a  lie.  It's  stu- 
pid; it's  disgusting.  I'm  tired  of  it!  Please  leave  me 
alone! 

GEORGE.  You  rather  miss  the  point,  I'm  afraid.  I 
didn't  come  here  to  tell  you  what  you  know  perfectly 
well  when  you're  sane.  I  came  here  to  say  this:  Any- 
one in  her  senses  could  see  the  game  your  friend  here 
is  playing.  It  wouldn't  take  a  baby  in.  If  you  think 
that  a  gentleman  like  that  [His  stare  travels  round  the 
dishevelled  room  till  it  rests  on  MALISE]  champions  a 
pretty  woman  for  nothing,  you  make  a  fairly  bad  mis- 
take. 

CLARE.  Take  care. 

But  MALISE,  after  one  convulsive  movement  of 
his  hands,  has  again  become  rigid. 

GEORGE.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  subtle  or  that  kind 
of  thing;  but  I  have  ordinary  common  sense.  I  don't 
attempt  to  be  superior  to  plain  facts 

CLARE.  [Under  her  breath]  Facts! 

GEORGE.  Oh!  for  goodness'  sake  drop  that  hifalutin' 
tone.  It  doesn't  suit  you.  Look  here!  If  you  like 
to  go  abroad  with  one  of  your  young  sisters  until  the 
autumn,  I'll  let  the  flat  and  go  to  the  Club. 

CLARE.  Put  the  fire  out  with  a  penny  hose.  [Slowly] 
I  am  not  coming  back  to  you,  George.  The  farce  is 
over. 


44  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  n 

GEORGE.  [Taken  aback  for  a  moment  by  the  finality 
of  her  tone,  suddenly  fronts  MALISE]  Then  there  is 
something  between  you  and  this  fellow. 

MALISE.  [Dangerously,  but  without  moving]  I  beg 
your  pardon! 

CLARE.  There — is — nothing. 

GEORGE  [Looking  from  one  to  the  other}  At  all  events, 
I  won't — I  won't  see  a  woman  who  once —  [CLARE 
makes  a  sudden  effacing  movement  with  her  hands}  I 
won't  see  her  go  to  certain  ruin  without  lifting  a  finger. 

CLARE.  That  is  noble. 

GEORGE.  [With  intensity]  I  don't  know  that  you  de- 
serve anything  of  me.  But  on  my  honour,  as  a  gen- 
tleman, I  came  here  this  morning  for  your  sake,  to 
warn  you  of  what  you're  doing.  [He  turns  suddenly  on 
MALISE]  And  I  tell  this  precious  friend  of  yours  plainly 
what  I  think  of  him,  and  that  I'm  not  going  to  play 
into  his  hands. 

MALISE,  without  stirring  from  the  wall,  looks  at 
CLARE,  and  his  lips  move. 

CLARE.  [Shakes  her  head  at  him — then  to  GEORGE] 
Will  you  go,  please? 

GEORGE.  I  will  go  when  you  do. 

MALISE.  A  man  of  the  world  should  know  better 
than  that. 

GEORGE.  Are  you  coming? 

MALISE.  That  is  inconceivable. 

GEORGE.  I'm  not  speaking  to  you,  sir. 

MALISE.  You  are  right.  Your  words  and  mine  will 
never  kiss  each  other. 


ACT  n  THE  FUGITIVE  45 

GEORGE.  Will  you  come?    [CLARE  shakes  her  head. 
GEORGE.  [With  fury]  D'you  mean  to  stay  in  this 
pigsty  with  that  rhapsodical  swine? 

MALISE.  [Transformed]  By  God,  if  you  don't  go,  I'll 
kill  you. 

GEORGE.  [As  suddenly  calm]  That  remains  to  be 
seen. 

MALISE.  [With  most  deadly  quietness]  Yes,  I  will  kill 
you. 

He  goes  stealthily  along  the  watt,  takes  up  from 
where  it  lies  on  the  pile  of  books  the  great  black 
knobby  stick,  and  stealthily  approaches  GEORGE, 
his  face  quite  fiendish. 

CLARE.  [With  a  swift  movement,  grasping  the  stick] 
Please. 

MALISE  resigns  the  stick,  and  the  two  men,  per- 
fectly still,  glare  at  each  other.     CLARE,  letting 
the  stick  fall,  puts  her  foot  on  it.     Then  slowly 
she  takes  off  her  hat  and  lays  it  on  the  table. 
CLARE.  Now  will  you  go!  [There  is  silence. 

GEORGE.  [Staring  at  her  hat]  You  mad  little  fool! 
Understand  this;  if  you've  not  returned  home  by  three 
o'clock  I'll  divorce  you,  and  you  may  roll  in  the  gutter 
with  this  high-souled  friend  of  yours.  And  mind  this, 
you  sir — I  won't  spare  you — by  God!  Your  pocket 
shall  suffer.  That's  the  only  thing  that  touches  fel- 
lows like  you. 

Turning,  he  goes  out,  and  slams  the  door.  CLARE 
and  MALISE  remain  face  to  face.  Her  lips 
have  begun  to  quiver. 


46  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  n 

CLARE.  Horrible! 

She  turns  away,  shuddering,  and  sits  down  on 
the   edge   of  the   armchair,   covering   her  eyes 
with  the  backs  of  her  hands.     MALISE   'picks 
up  the  stick,   and  fingers   it  lovingly.     Then 
putting  it  down,  he  moves  so  that  he  can  see 
her  face.     She   is   sitting   quite   still,   staring 
straight  before  her. 
MALISE.  Nothing  could  be  better. 
CLARE.  I  don't  know  what  to  do!     I  don't  know 
what  to  do! 

MALISE.  Thank  the  stars  for  your  good  fortune. 
CLARE.  He  means  to  have  revenge  on  you!    And 
it's  all  my  fault. 

MALISE.  Let  him.     Let  him  go  for  his  divorce.     Get 
rid  of  him.     Have  done  with  him — somehow. 

She  gets  up  and  stands  with  face  averted.     Then 

swiftly  turning  to  him. 

CLARE.  If  I  must  bring  you  harm — let  me  pay  you 
back!     I  can't  bear  it  otherwise!     Make  some  use  of 
me,  if  you  don't  mind! 
MALISE.  My  God! 

[She  puts  up  her  face  to  be  kissed,  shutting  her  eyes. 

MALISE.  You  poor 

He  clasps  and  kisses  her,  then,  drawing  back,  looks 
in  her  face.     She  has  not  moved,  her  eyes  are 
still  closed;  but  she  is  shivering ;   her  lips  are 
tightly  pressed  together;  her  hands  twitching. 
MALISE.  [Very   quietly]  No,   no!    This   is   not   the 
house  of  a  "gentleman." 


ACT  n  THE   FUGITIVE  47 

CLARE.  [Letting  her  head  fall,  and  almost  in  a  whisper] 
I'm  sorry. 

MALISE.  I  understand. 

CLARE.  I  don't  feel.     And  without — I  can't,  can't. 
MALISE.  [Bitterly]  Quite  right.     You've  had  enough 
of  that. 

There  is  a  long  silence.     Without  looking  at  him 

she  takes  up  her  hat,  and  puts  it  on. 
MALISE.  Not  going?  [CLARE  nods. 

MALJSE.  You  don't  trust  me? 

CLARE.  I  do  I    But  I  can't  take  when  I'm  not  giving. 
MALISE.  I  beg — I  beg  you!    What  does  it  matter? 
Use  me!    Get  free  somehow. 

CLARE.  Mr.  Malise,  I  know  what  I  ought  to  be  to 
you,  if  I  let  you  in  for  all  this.  I  know  what  you 
want — or  will  want.  Of  course — why  not? 

MALISE.  I  give  you  my  solemn  word 

CLARE.  No!  if  I  can't  be  that  to  you — it's  not  real. 
And  I  can't.     It  isn't  to  be  manufactured,  is  it? 
MALISE.  It  is  not. 
CLARE.  To  make  use  of  you  in  such  a  way!    No. 

[She  moves  towards  the  door. 
MALISE.  Where  are  you  going? 

CLARE  does  not  answer.  She  is  breathing  rapidly. 
There  is  a  change  in  her,  a  sort  of  excitement  be- 
neath her  calmness. 

MAUSE.  Not  back  to  him?  [CLARE  shakes  her  head] 
Thank  God!    But  where?    To  your  people  again? 
CLARE.  No. 


48  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  H 

MALISE.  Nothing — desperate? 

CLARE.  Oh !  no. 

MALISE.  Then  what — tell  me — come! 

CLARE.  I  don't  know.     Women  manage  somehow. 

MALISE.  But  you — poor  dainty  thing! 

CLARE.  It's  all  right!    Don't  be  unhappy!    Please! 

MALISE.  [Seizing  her  arm]  D'you  imagine  they'll 
let  you  off,  out  there — you  with  your  face?  Come, 
trust  me — trust  me!  You  must! 

CLARE.  {Holding  out  her  hand]  Good-bye! 

MALISE.  [Not  taking  that  hand]  This  great  damned 
world,  and — you!  Listen!  [The  sound  of  the  traffic  far 
down  below  is  audible  in  the  stillness]  Into  that  I  alone — 
helpless — without  money.  The  men  who  work  with 
you;  the  men  you  make  friends  of — d'you  think  they'll 
let  you  be?  The  men  in  the  streets,  staring  at  you, 
stopping  you — pudgy,  bull-necked  brutes;  devils  with 
hard  eyes;  senile  swine;  and  the  "chivalrous"  men, 
like  me,  who  don't  mean  you  harm,  but  can't  help 
seeing  you're  made  for  love!  Or  suppose  you  don't 
take  covert  but  struggle  on  in  the  open.  Society!  The 
respectable!  The  pious!  Even  those  who  love  you! 
Will  they  let  you  be?  Hue  and  cry!  The  hunt  was 
joined  the  moment  you  broke  away!  It  will  never  let 
up !  Covert  to  covert — till  they've  run  you  down,  and 
you're  back  in  the  cart,  and  God  pity  you! 

CLARE.  Well,  I'll  die  running! 

MALISE.  No,  no!    Let  me  shelter  you!    Let  me! 

CLARE.  [Shaking  her  head  and  smiling]  I'm  going  to 
seek  my  fortune.  Wish  me  luck! 


ACT  n  THE  FUGITIVE  49 

MALISE.  I  can't  let  you  go. 

CLARE.  You  must. 

He  looks  into  her  face;  then,  realizing  that  she 
means  it,  suddenly  bends  down  to  her  fingers, 
and  puts  his  lips  to  them. 

MALISE.  Good  luck,  then!  Good  luck! 

He  releases  her  hand.  Just  touching  his  bent 
head  with  her  other  hand,  CLARE  turns  and 
goes.  MALISE  remains  with  bowed  head,  listen- 
ing to  the  sound  of  her  receding  footsteps.  They 
die  away.  He  raises  himself,  and  strikes  out 
into  the  air  with  his  clenched  fist. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  III 

MALISE'S  sitting-room.  An  afternoon,  three  months 
later.  On  the  table  are  an  open  bottle  of  claret,  his 
hat,  and  some  tea-things.  Down  in  the  hearth  is  a 
kettle  on  a  lighted  spirit-stand.  Near  the  door 
stands  HAYWOOD,  a  short,  round-faced  man,  with 
a  tobacco-coloured  moustache;  MALISE,  by  the  table, 
is  contemplating  a  piece  of  blue  paper. 

HAYWOOD.  Sorry  to  press  an  old  customer,  sir,  but 

a  year  and  an  'alf  without  any  return  on  your  money 

MALISE.  Your  tobacco  is  too  good,  Mr.  Haywood. 
I  wish  I  could  see  my  way  to  smoking  another. 
HAYWOOD.  Well,  sir — that's  a  funny  remedy. 

With  a  knock  on  the  half -opened  door,  a  BOY  ap- 
pears. 

MALISE.  Yes.     What  is  it? 

BOY.  Your  copy  for  "The  Watchfire,"  please,  sir. 
MALISE.  [Motioning  him  out]  Yes.     Wait! 

The  BOY  withdraws.  MALISE  goes  up  to  the  pile 
of  books,  turns  them  over,  and  takes  up  some 
volumes. 

MALISE.  This  is  a  very  fine  unexpurgated  translation 
of   Boccaccio's    "Decameron,"    Mr.    Haywood — illus- 
trated.    I  should  say  you  would  get  more  than  the 
amount  of  your  bill  for  them. 
51 


52  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  m 

HAYWOOD.  [Shaking  his  head]  Them  books  worth 
three  pound  seven! 

MALISE.  It's  scarce,  and  highly  improper.  Will 
you  take  them  in  discharge? 

HAYWOOD.  [Torn  between  emotions]  Well,  I  'ardly 
know  what  to  say —  No,  sir,  I  don't  think  I'd  like 
to  'ave  to  do  with  that. 

MALISE.  You  could  read  them  first,  you  know? 

HAYWOOD.  [Dubiously]  I've  got  my  wife  at  'ome. 

MALISE.  You  could  both  read  them. 

HAYWOOD.  [Brought  to  his  bearings]  No,  sir,  I 
couldn't. 

MALISE.  Very  well;  I'll  sell  them  myself,  and  you 
shall  have  the  result. 

HAYWOOD.  Well,  thank  you,  sir.  I'm  sure  I  didn't 
want  to  trouble  you. 

MALISE.  Not  at  all,  Mr.  Hay  wood.  It's  for  me  to 
apologize. 

HAYWOOD.  So  long  as  I  give  satisfaction. 

MALISE.  [Holding  the  door  for  him]  Certainly.  Good 
evening. 

HAYWOOD.  Good  evenin',  sir;  no  offence,  I  hope. 

MALISE.  On  the  contrary. 

Doubtfully  HAYWOOD  goes.  And  MALISE  stands 
scratching  his  head;  then  slipping  the  bill  into 
one  of  the  volumes  to  remind  him,  he  replaces 
them  at  the  top  of  the  pile.  The  BOY  again 
advances  into  the  doorway. 

MALISE.  Yes,  now  for  you. 

He  goes  to  the  table  and  takes  some  sheets  of  MS. 


sc.  i  THE  FUGITIVE  53 

from  an  old  portfolio.     But  the  door  is  again 
timidly  pushed  open,  and  HAYWOOD  reappears. 
MALISE.  Yes,  Mr.  Hay  wood? 

HAYWOOD.  About  that  little  matter,  sir.  If — if  it's 
any  convenience  to  you — I've — thought  of  a  place 

where  I  could 

MALISE.  Read  them?  You'll  enjoy  them  thor- 
oughly. 

HAYWOOD.  No,  sir,  no!  Where  I  can  dispose  of 
them. 

MALISE.  [Holding  out  the  volumes]  It  might  be  as 
well.  [HAYWOOD  takes  the  books  gingerly]  I  congratu- 
late you,  Mr.  Haywood;  it's  a  classic. 

HAYWOOD.  Oh,  indeed — yes,  sir.    In  the  event  of 

there  being  any 

MALISE.  Anything  over?    Carry  it  to  my  credit. 

Your  bill [He  hands  over  the  blue  paper]  Send  me 

the  receipt.     Good  evening! 

HAYWOOD,  nonplussed,  and  trying  to  hide  the 
books  in  an  evening  paper,  fumbles  out :  "Good 
evenin',  sir!"  and  departs.  MALISE  again 
takes  up  the  sheets  of  MS.  and  cons  a  sentence 
over  to  himself,  gazing  blankly  at  the  stolid 
BOY. 

MALISE.  "Man  of  the  world — good  form  your  god! 
Poor  buttoned-up  philosopher"  [the  BOY  shifts  his  feet] 
"inbred  to  the  point  of  cretinism,  and  founded  to  the 
bone  on  fear  of  ridicule  [the  BOY  breathes  heavily] — you 
are  the  slave  of  facts!" 

[There  is  a  knock  on  the  door. 


54  THE   FUGITIVE  ACT  in 

MALISE.  Who  is  it? 

The  door  is  pushed  open,  and  REGINALD  HUNT- 
INGDON stands  there. 

HUNTINGDON.  I  apologize,  sir;  can  I  come  in  a 
minute? 

[MALISE  bows  with  ironical  hostility. 

HUNTINGDON.  I  don't  know  if  you  remember  me — 
Clare  Dedmond's  brother. 

MALISE.  I  remember  you. 

[He  motions  to  the  stolid  BOY  to  go  outside  again. 

HUNTINGDON.  I've  come  to  you,  sir,  as  a  gentle- 
man  

MALISE.  Some  mistake.  There  is  one,  I  believe,  on 
the  first  floor. 

HUNTINGDON.  It's  about  my  sister. 

MALISE.  D — n  you!  Don't  you  know  that  I've 
been  shadowed  these  last  three  months?  Ask  your 
detectives  for  any  information  you  want. 

HUNTINGDON.  We  know  that  you  haven't  seen  her, 
or  even  known  where  she  is. 

MALISE.  Indeed!  You've  found  that  out?  Bril- 
liant! 

HUNTINGDON.  We  know  it  from  my  sister. 

MALISE.  Oh !  So  you've  tracked  her  down? 

HUNTINGDON.  Mrs.  Fullarton  came  across  her  yes- 
terday in  one  of  those  big  shops — selling  gloves. 

MALISE.  Mrs.  Fullarton — the  lady  with  the  husband. 
Well!  you've  got  her.  Clap  her  back  into  prison. 

HUNTINGDON.  We  have  not  got  her.  She  left  at 
once,  and  we  don't  know  where  she's  gone. 


sc.  i  THE  FUGITIVE  55 

MALISE.  Bravo! 

HUNTINGDON.  [Taking  hold  of  his  bit]  Look  here,  Mr. 
Malise,  in  a  way  I  share  your  feeling,  but  I'm  fond  of 
my  sister,  and  it's  damnable  to  have  to  go  back  to  India 
knowing  she  must  be  all  adrift,  without  protection, 
going  through  God  knows  what!  Mrs.  Fullarton  says 
she's  looking  awfully  pale  and  down. 

MALISE.  [Struggling  between  resentment  and  sympa- 
thy] Why  do  you  come  to  me? 

HUNTINGDON.  We  thought 

MALISE.  Who? 

HUNTINGDON.  My — my  father  and  myself. 

MALISE.  Go  on. 

HUNTINGDON.  We  thought  there  was  just  a  chance 
that,  having  lost  that  job,  she  might  come  to  you 
again  for  advice.  If  she  does,  it  would  be  really  gen- 
erous of  you  if  you'd  put  my  father  in  touch  with  her. 
He's  getting  old,  and  he  feels  this  very  much.  [He 
hands  MALISE  a  card]  This  is  his  address. 

MALISE.  [Twisting  the  card]  Let  there  be  no  mistake, 
sir;  I  do  nothing  that  will  help  give  her  back  to  her 
husband.  She's  out  to  save  her  soul  alive,  and  I  don't 
join  the  hue  and  cry  that's  after  her.  On  the  contrary 
— if  I  had  the  power.  If  your  father  wants  to  shelter 
her,  that's  another  matter.  But  she'd  her  own  ideas 
about  that. 

HUNTINGDON.  Perhaps  you  don't  realize  how  unfit 
my  sister  is  for  rough  and  tumble.  She's  not  one  of 
this-  new  sort  of  woman.  She's  always  been  looked 


56  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  in 

after,  and  had  things  done  for  her.      Pluck  she's  got, 
but  that's  all,  and  she's  bound  to  come  to  grief. 

MAHSE.  Very  likely — the  first  birds  do.  But  if  she 
drops  half-way  it's  better  than  if  she'd  never  flown. 
Your  sister,  sir,  is  trying  the  wings  of  her  spirit,  out 
of  the  old  slave  market.  For  women  as  for  men,  there's 
more  than  one  kind  of  dishonour,  Captain  Hunting- 
don, and  worse  things  than  being  dead,  as  you  may 
know  in  your  profession. 

HUNTINGDON.  Admitted — but 

MALISE.  We  each  have  our  own  views  as  to  what 
they  are.  But  they  all  come  to — death  of  our  spirits, 
for  the  sake  of  our  carcases.  Anything  more? 

HUNTINGDON.  My  leave's  up.     I  sail  to-morrow.    If 
you  do  see  my  sister  I  trust  you  to  give  her  my  love 
and  say  I  begged  she  would  see  my  father. 
MALISE.  If  I  have  the  chance — yes. 

He  makes  a  gesture  of  salute,  to  which  HUNTING- 
DON responds.  Then  the  latter  turns  and  goes 
out. 

MALISE.  Poor  fugitive!  Where  are  you  running  now? 
He  stands  at  the  window,  through  which  the  even- 
ing sunlight  is  'powdering  the  room  with  smoky 
gold.     The  stolid  BOY  has  again  come  in.     MA- 
LISE stares  at  him,  then  goes  back  to  the  table, 
takes  up  the  MS.,  and  booms  it  at  him;   he  re- 
ceives the  charge,  breathing  hard. 
MALISE.  "Man  of  the  world — product  of  a  material 
age;  incapable  of  perceiving  reality  in  motions  of  the 
spirit;  having  'no  use,'  as  you  would  say,  for  'senti- 


ac.  i  THE  FUGITIVE  57 

mental  nonesnse';  accustomed  to  believe  yourself  the 
national  spine — your  position  is  unassailable.  You  will 
remain  the  idol  of  the  country — arbiter  of  law,  parson 
in  mufti,  darling  of  the  playwright  and  the  novelist 
— God  bless  you! — while  waters  lap  these  shores." 

He  places  the  sheets  of  MS.  in  an  envelope,  and 

hands  them  to  the  BOY. 

MALISE.  You're  going  straight  back  to  "The  Watch- 
fire"? 

BOY.  [Stolidly]  Yes,  sir. 

MALISE.  [Staring    at   him]    You're    a    masterpiece. 
D'you  know  that? 
BOY.  No,  sir. 
MALISE.  Get  out,  then. 

He  lifts  the  portfolio  from  the  table,  and  takes  it 
into  the  inner  room.  The  BOY,  putting  his 
thumb  stolidly  to  his  nose,  turns  to  go.  In  the 
doorway  he  shies  violently  at  the  figure  of  CLARE, 
standing  there  in  a  dark-coloured  dress,  skids 
past  her  and  goes.  CLARE  comes  into  the  gleam 
of  sunlight,  her  white  face  alive  with  emotion 
or  excitement.  She  looks  round  her,  smiles, 
sighs;  goes  swiftly  to  the  door,  closes  it,  and 
comes  back  to  the  table.  There  she  stands,  fin- 
gering the  papers  on  the  table,  smoothing  MA- 
LISE'S  hat — wistfully,  eagerly,  waiting. 
MALISE.  [Returning]  You! 

CLARE.  [With  a  faint  smile]  Not  very  glorious,  is  it? 
He  goes  towards  her,  and  checks  himself,  then 
slews  the  armchair  round. 


58  THE   FUGITIVE  ACT  m 

MALISE.  Come!  Sit  down,  sit  down!  [CLARE,  heav- 
ing a  long  sigh,  sinks  down  into  tfie  chair]  Tea's  nearly 
ready. 

He  places  a  cushion  for  her,  and  prepares  tea;  she 
looks  up  at  him  softly,  but  as  he  finishes  and 
turns  to  her,  she  drops  that  glance. 
CLARE.  Do  you  think  me  an  awful  coward  for  com- 
ing? [She  has  taken  a  little  plain  cigarette  case  from  her 
dress]  Would  you  mind  if  I  smoked? 

MALISE  shakes  his  head,  then  draws  back  from 
her  again,  as  if  afraid  to  be  too  close.     And 
again,  unseen,  she  looks  at  him. 
MALISE.  So  you've  lost  your  job? 

CLARE.  How  did  you ? 

MALISE.  Your  brother.     You  only  just  missed  him. 
[CLARE  starts  up]  They  had  an  idea  you'd  come.     He's 
sailing  to-morrow — he  wants  you  to  see  your  father. 
CLARE.  Is  father  ill? 
MALISE.  Anxious  about  you. 

CLARE.  I've  written  to  him  every  week.  [Excited] 
They're  still  hunting  me! 

MALISE.  [Touching  her  shoulder  gently]  It's  all  right 
— all  right. 

She  sinks  again  into  the  chair,  and  again  he  with- 
draws. And  once  more  she  gives  him  that  soft 
eager  look,  and  once  more  averts  it  as  he  turns 
to  her. 

CLARE.  My  nerves  have  gone  funny  lately.  It's  be- 
ing always  on  one's  guard,  and  stuffy  air,  and  feeling 


sc.  i  THE  FUGITIVE  59 

people  look  and  talk  about  you,  and  dislike  your  being 
there. 

MALISE.  Yes;  that  wants  pluck. 

CLARE.  [Shaking  her  head]  I  curl  up  all  the  time. 
The  only  thing  I  know  for  certain  is,  that  I  shall  never 
go  back  to  him.  The  more  I've  hated  what  I've  been 
doing,  the  more  sure  I've  been.  I  might  come  to  any- 
thing— but  not  that. 

MALISE.  Had  a  very  bad  time? 

CLARE.  [Nodding]  I'm  spoilt.  It's  a  curse  to  be  a 
lady  when  you  have  to  earn  your  living.  It's  not  really 
been  so  hard,  I  suppose;  I've  been  selling  things,  and 
living  about  twice  as  well  as  most  shop  girls. 

MALISE.  Were  they  decent  to  you? 

CLARE.  Lots  of  the  girls  are  really  nice.  But  some- 
how they  don't  want  me,  can't  help  thinking  I've  got 
airs  or  something;  and  in  here  [She  touches  her  breast] 
I  don't  want  them! 

MALISE.  I  know. 

CLARE.  Mrs.  Fullarton  and  I  used  to  belong  to  a 
society  for  helping  reduced  gentlewomen  to  get  work. 
I  know  now  what  they  want:  enough  money  not  to 
work — that's  all!  [Suddenly  looking  up  at  him]  Don't 
think  me  worse  than  I  am — please!  It's  working  un- 
der people;  it's  having  to  do  it,  being  driven.  I  have 
tried,  I've  not  been  altogether  a  coward,  really!  But 
every  morning  getting  there  the  same  time;  every  day 
the  same  stale  "dinner,"  as  they  call  it;  every  evening 
the  same  "Good  evening,  Miss  Clare,"  "Good  evening, 
Miss  Simpson,"  "Good  evening,  Miss  Hart,"  "Good 
evening,  Miss  Clare."  And  the  same  walk  home,  or 


60  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  m 

the  same  'bus;  and  the  same  men  that  you  mustn't 
look  at,  for  fear  they'll  follow  you.  [She  rises]  Oh!  and 
the  feeling — always,  always — that  there's  no  sun,  or 
life,  or  hope,  or  anything.  It  was  just  like  being  ill, 
the  way  I've  wanted  to  ride  and  dance  and  get  out  into 
the  country.  [Her  excitement  dies  away  into  the  old 
clipped  composure,  and  she  sits  down  again]  Don't  think 
too  badly  of  me — it  really  is  pretty  ghastly ! 

MALISE.  [Gruffly]  H'm!    Why  a  shop? 

CLARE.  References.  I  didn't  want  to  tell  more  lies 
than  I  could  help;  a  married  woman  on  strike  can't  tell 
the  truth,  you  know.  And  I  can't  typewrite  or  do 
shorthand  yet.  And  chorus — I  thought — you  wouldn't 
like. 

MALISE.  I?    What  have  I ?  [He  checks  himself] 

Have  men  been  brutes? 

CLARE.  [Stealing  a  look  at  him]  One  followed  me  a 
lot.  He  caught  hold  of  my  arm  one  evening.  I  just 
took  this  out  [She  draws  out  her  hatpin  and  holds  it  like 
a  dagger,  her  lip  drawn  back  as  the  lips  of  a  dog  going 
to  bite]  and  said:  "Will  you  leave  me  alone,  please?" 
And  he  did.  It  was  rather  nice.  And  there  was  one 
quite  decent  little  man  in  the  shop — I  was  sorry  for 
him — such  a  humble  little  man! 

MALISE.  Poor  devil — it's  hard  not  to  wish  for  the 
moon. 

At  the  tone  of  his  voice  CLARE  looks  up  at  him ; 
his  face  is  turned  away. 

CLARE.  [So/%]  How  have  you  been?  Working  very 
hard? 

MALISE.  As  hard  as  God  will  let  me. 


BC.  i  THE  FUGITIVE  61 

CLARE.  [Stealing  another  look]  Have  you  any  type- 
writing I  could  do?    I  could  learn,  and  I've  still  got 
a  brooch  I  could  sell.     Which  is  the  best  kind? 
MALISE.  I  had  a  catalogue  of  them  somewhere. 

He  goes  into  the  inner  room.     The  moment  he  is 
gone,  CLARE  stands  up,  her  hands  pressed  to 
her  cheeks  as  if  she  felt  them  flaming.     Then, 
wiih  hands  clasped,  she  stands  waiting.    He 
comes  back  with  the  old  portfolio. 
MALISE.  Can  you  typewrite  where  you  are? 
CLARE.  I  have  to  find  a  new  room  anyway.    I'm 
changing — to  be  safe.  [She  takes  a  luggage  ticket  from 
her  glove]  I  took  my  things  to  Charing  Cross — only  a 
bag  and  one  trunk.  [Then,  with  that  queer  expression  on 
her  face  which  prefaces  her  desperations]  You  don't  want 
me  now,  I  suppose. 
MALISE.  What? 

CLARE.  [Hardly  above  a  whisper]  Because — if  you 
still  wanted  me — I  do — now. 

MALISE.  [Staring  hard  into  her  face  that  is  quivering 

and  smiling]  You  mean  it?    You  do?    You  care ? 

CLARE.  I've  thought  of  you — so  much!    But  only — 
if  you're  sure. 

He  clasps  her  and  kisses  her  closed  eyes;  and  so 
they  stand  for  a  moment,  till  the  sound  of  a 
latchkey  in  the  door  sends  them  apart. 
MALISE.  It's  the  housekeeper.     Give  me  that  ticket; 
I'll  send  for  your  things. 

Obediently  she  gives  him  the  ticket,  smiles,  and 
goes  quietly  into  the  inner  room.     MRS.  MILER 


62  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  in 

has  entered  ;  her  face,  more  Chinese  than  ever, 
shows  no  sign  of  having  seen. 
MALISE.  That   lady   will    stay    here,    Mrs.    Miler. 

Kindly  go  with  this  ticket  to  the  cloak-room  at  Charing 

Cross  station,  and  bring  back  her  luggage  in  a  cab. 

Have  you  money? 

MRS.  MILER.  'Arf  a  crown.  [She  takes  the  ticket — 

then  impassively]  In  case  you  don't  know — there's  two 

o'  them  men  about  the  stairs  now. 

The  moment  she  is  gone  MALISE  makes  a  gesture 
of  maniacal  fury.  He  steals  on  tiptoe  to  the 
outer  door,  and  listens.  Then,  placing  his 
hand  on  the  knob,  he  turns  it  witJiout  noise,  and 
wrenches  back  the  door.  Transfigured  in  the 
last  sunlight  streaming  down  the  corridor  are 
two  men,  close  together,  listening  and  consulting 
secretly.  They  start  back. 
MALISE.  [With  strange,  almost  noiseless  ferocity] 

You've  run  her  to  earth;  your  job's  done.     Kennel  up, 

hounds!  [And  in  their  faces  he  slams  the  door. 

CURTAIN. 


sc.  n  THE  FUGITIVE  63 

SCENE  II 

i 

SCENE  II. — The  same,  early  on  a  winter  afternoon,  three 
months  later.  The  room  has  now  a  certain  dainti- 
ness. There  are  curtains  over  the  doors,  a  couch 
under  the  window,  all  the  books  are  arranged  on 
shelves.  In  small  vases,  over  the  fireplace,  are  a 
few  violets  and  chrysanthemums.  MALISE  sits  hud- 
dled in  his  armchair  drawn  close  to  the  fire,  paper 
on  knee,  pen  in  hand.  He  looks  rather  grey  and 
drawn,  and  round  his  chair  is  the  usual  litter.  At 
the  table,  now  nearer  to  the  window,  CLARE  sits 
working  a  typewriter.  She  finishes  a  line,  puts 
sheets  of  paper  together,  makes  a  note  on  a  card — 
adds  some  figures,  and  marks  the  total. 

CLARE.  Kenneth,  when  this  is  paid,  I  shall  have 
made  two  pound  seventeen  in  the  three  months,  and 
saved  you  about  three  pounds.  One  hundred  and 
seventeen  shillings  at  tenpence  a  thousand  is  one 
hundred  and  forty  thousand  words  at  fourteen  hundred 
words  an  hour.  It's  only  just  over  an  hour  a  day. 
Can't  you  get  me  more? 

MALISE  lifts  the  hand  that  holds  his  pen  and  lets 
it  fall  again.  CLARE  puts  the  cover  on  the  type- 
ivriter,  and  straps  it. 

CLARE.  I'm  quite  packed.  Shall  I  pack  for  you? 
[He  nods]  Can't  we  have  more  than  three  days  at  the 
sea?  [He  shakes  his  head.  Going  up  to  him]  You  did 
sleep  last  night. 


64  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  ro 

MALISE.  Yes,  I  slept. 

CLAKE.  Bad  head?  [MALISE  nods]  By  this  time  the 
day  after  to-morrow  the  case  will  be  heard  and  done 
with.  You're  not  worrying  for  me?  Except  for  my 
poor  old  Dad,  7  don't  care  a  bit. 

MALISE  heaves  himself  out  of  the  chair,  and  begins 
pacing  up  and  down. 

CLARE.  Kenneth,  do  you  understand  why  he  doesn't 
claim  damages,  after  what  he  said  that  day — here? 
[Looking  suddenly  at  him]  It  is  true  that  he  doesn't? 

MALISE.  It  is  not. 

CLARE.  But  you  told  me  yourself 

MALISE.  I  lied. 

CLARE.  Why? 

MALISE.  [Shrugging]  No  use  lying  any  longer — 
you'd  know  it  to-morrow. 

CLARE.  How  much  am  I  valued  at? 

MALISE.  Two  thousand.  [Grimly]  He'll  settle  it  on 
you.  [He  laughs]  Masterly!  By  one  stroke,  destroys 
his  enemy,  avenges  his  "honour,"  and  gilds  his  name 
with  generosity! 

CLARE.  Will  you  have  to  pay? 

MALISE.  Stones  yield  no  blood. 

CLARE.  Can't  you  borrow? 

MALISE.  I  couldn't  even  get  the  costs. 

CLARE.  Will  they  make  you  bankrupt,  then?  [MA- 
LISE nods]  But  that  doesn't  mean  that  you  won't  have 
your  income,  does  it?  [MALISE  laughs]  What  is  your  in- 
come, Kenneth?  [He  is  silent]  A  hundred  and  fifty 
from  "The  Watchfire,"  I  know.  What  else? 


BC.  n  THE  FUGITIVE  65 

MALISE.  Out  of  five  books  I  have  made  the  sum  of 
forty  pounds. 

CLARE.  What  else?    Tell  me. 

MALISE.  Fifty  to  a  hundred  pounds  a  year.    Leave 
me  to  gnaw  my  way  out,  child. 

CLARE  stands  looking  at  him  in  distress,  then  goes 
quickly   into  the   room   behind  her.     MALISE 
takes  up  his  paper  and  pen.     The  paper  is  quite 
blank. 
MALISE.  [Feeling  his  head]  Full  of  smoke. 

He  drops  paper  and  pen,  and  crossing  to  the  room 
on  the  left  goes  in.  CLARE  re-enters  with  a 
small  leather  box.  She  puts  it  down  on  her 
typing  table  as  MALJSE  returns  followed  by  MRS. 
MILER,  wearing  her  hat,  and  carrying  his  over- 
coat. 

MRS.  MILER.  Put  your  coat  on.    It's  a  bitter  wind. 

[He  puts  on  the  coat. 
CLARE.  Where  are  you  going? 
MALISE.  To  "The  Watchfire." 

The  door  closes  behind  him,  and  MRS.  MILER 
goes  up  to  CLARE  holding  out  a  little  blue  bot- 
tle with  a  red  label,  nearly  futt. 

MRS.  MILER.  You  know  he's  takin'  this  [She  makes 
a  little  motion  towards  her  mouth]  to  make  'im  sleep? 
CLARE.  [Reading  the  label\  Where  was  it? 
MRS.  MILER.  In  the  bathroom  chest  o'   drawers, 
where  'e  keeps  'is  odds  and  ends.     I  was  lookin'  for  'is 
garters. 

CLARE.  Give  it  to  me! 


66  THE   FUGITIVE  ACT  m 

Mas.  MILER.  He  took  it  once  before.  He  must  get 
his  sleep. 

CLARE.  Give  it  to  me! 

MRS.  MILER  resigns  it,  CLARE  takes  the  cork 
out,  smells,  then  tastes  it  from  her  finger.  MRS. 
MILER,  twisting  her  apron  in  her  hands,  speaks. 

MRS.  MILER.  I've  'ad  it  on  my  mind  a  long  time  to 
speak  to  yer.  Your  comin'  'ere's  not  done  'im  a  bit 
o'  good. 

CLARE.  Don't! 

MRS.  MILER.  I  don't  want  to,  but  what  with  the 
worry  o'  this  'ere  divorce  suit,  an'  you  bein'  a  lady  an' 
'im  havin'  to  be  so  careful  of  yer,  and  tryin'  to  save, 
not  smokin'  all  day  like  'e  used,  an'  not  gettin'  'is 
two  bottles  of  claret  regular;  an'  losin'  his  sleep,  an' 
takin'  that  stuff  for  it;  and  now  this  'ere  last  business. 
I've  seen  'im  sometimes  holdin'  'is  'ead  as  if  it  was 
comin'  off.  [Seeing  CLARE  wince,  she  goes  on  with  a  sort 
of  compassion  in  her  Chinese  face]  I  can  see  yer  fond  of 
him;  an'  I've  nothin'  against  yer — you  don't  trouble 
me  a  bit;  but  I've  been  with  'im  eight  years — we're 
used  to  each  other,  and  I  can't  bear  to  see  'im  not 
'imself,  really  I  can't. 

She  gives  a  sudden  sniff.  Then  her  emotion  passes, 
leaving  her  as  Chinese  as  ever. 

CLARE.  This  last  business — what  do  you  mean  by 
that? 

MRS.  MILER.  If  'e  a'n't  told  yer,  I  don't  know  that 
I've  any  call  to. 

CLARE.  Please. 


BC.  n  THE  FUGITIVE  67 

MRS.  MILER.  [Her  hands  twisting  very  fast]  Well,  it's 
to  do  with  this  'ere  "Watchfire."  One  of  the  men 
that  sees  to  the  writin'  of  it — 'e's  an  old  friend  of  Mr. 
Malise,  'e  come  'ere  this  mornin'  when  you  was  out. 
I  was  doin'  my  work  in  there  [She  points  to  the  room  on 
the  right]  an'  the  door  open,  so  I  'eard  'em.  Now 
you've  'ung  them  curtains,  you  can't  'elp  it. 

CLARE.  Yes? 

MRS.  MILER.  It's  about  your  divorce  case.  This 
'ere  "Watchfire,"  ye  see,  belongs  to  some  fellers  that 
won't  'ave  their  men  gettin'  into  the  papers.  So  this 
'ere  friend  of  Mr.  Malise — very  nice  'e  spoke  about 
it — "If  it  comes  into  Court,"  'e  says,  "you'll  'ave  to 
go,"  'e  says.  "These  beggars,  these  dogs,  these  logs," 
'e  says,  "they'll  'oof  you  out,"  'e  says.  An'  I  could 
tell  by  the  sound  of  his  voice,  'e  meant  it — proper 
upset  'e  was.  So  that's  that! 

CLARE.  It's  inhuman! 

MRS.  MILER.  That's  what  I  thinks;  but  it  don't 
'elp,  do  it?  "'Tain't  the  circulation,"  'e  says,  "it's  the 
principle,"  'e  says;  and  then  'e  starts  in  swearin'  hor- 
rible. 'E's  a  very  nice  man.  And  Mr.  Malise,  'e  says: 
"Well,  that  about  does  for  me!"  'e  says. 

CLARE.  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Miler — I'm  glad  to  know. 

MRS.  MILER.  Yes;  I  don't  know  as  I  ought  to  'ave 
told  you.  [Desperately  uncomfortable]  You  see,  I  don't, 
take  notice  of  Mr.  Malise,  but  I  know  'im  very  well. 
'E's  a  good-'earted  gentleman,  very  funny,  that'll  do 
things  to  help  others,  and  what's  more,  keep  on  doin' 
'em,  when  they  hurt  'im;  very  obstinate  'e  is.  Now, 


68  THE   FUGITIVE  ACT  m 

when  you  first  come  'ere,  three  months  ago,  I  says  to 
meself:  "He'll  enjoy  this  'ere  for  a  bit,  but  she's  too 
much  of  a  lady  for  'im."  What  'e  wants  about  'im 
permanent  is  a  woman  that  thinks  an'  talks  about  all 
them  things  he  talks  about.  And  sometimes  I  fancy  'e 
don't  want  nothin'  permanent  about  'im  at  all. 

CLARE.  Don't! 

MBS.  MILEB.  [With  another  sudden  sniff]  Gawd 
knows  I  don't  want  to  upset  ye.  You're  situated  very 
'ard;  an'  women's  got  no  business  to  'urt  one  another 
— that's  what  I  thinks. 

CLABE.  Will  you  go  out  and  do  something  for  me? 
[Mas.  MILEB  nods.  CLABE  takes  up  the  sheaf  of  papers 
and  from  the  leather  box  a  note  and  an  emerald  pendant} 
Take  this  with  the  note  to  that  address — it's  quite 
close.  He'll  give  you  thirty  pounds  for  it.  Please  pay 
these  bills  and  bring  me  back  the  receipts,  and  what's 
over. 

MBS.  MILEB.  {Taking  the  pendant  and  note}  It's  a 
pretty  thing. 

CLABE.  Yes.    It  was  my  mother's. 

MBS.  MILEB.  It's  a  pity  to  part  with  it;  ain't  you 
got  another? 

CLABE.  Nothing  more,  Mrs.  Miler,  not  even  a  wed- 
ding ring. 

MBS.  MILEB.  {Without  expression}  You  make  my 
'eart  ache  sometimes. 

She  wraps  pendant  and  note  into  her  handker- 
chief and  goes  out  to  the  door. 

MBS.  MILEB.  [From  the  door]  There's  a  lady  and 


sc.  n  THE   FUGITIVE  69 

gentleman    out    here.    Mrs.   Fuller— wants    you,  not 
Mr.  Malise. 

CLARE.  Mrs.  Fullarton?  [Mas.  MILEB  nods]  Ask 
them  to  come  in. 

MBS.  MILEB  opens  the  door  wide,  says  "Come 
in,"  and  goes.  MBS.  FULLABTON  is  accom- 
panied not  by  FULLABTON,  but  by  the  lawyer, 
TWISDEN.  They  come  in. 

MBS.  FULLABTON.  Clare!  My  dear!  How  are  you 
after  all  this  time? 

CLARE.  {Her  eyes  fixed  on  TWISDEN]  Yes? 

MBS.  FULLABTON.  [Disconcerted  by  the  strange  greet- 
ing} I  brought  Mr.  Twisden  to  tell  you  something. 
May  I  stay? 

CLABE.  Yes.  [She  points  to  the  chair  at  the  same  table : 
MBS.  FULLABTON  sits  down]  Now! 

[TWISDEN  comes  forward. 

TWISDEN.  As  you're  not  defending  this  case,  Mrs. 
Dedmond,  there  is  nobody  but  yourself  for  me  to 
apply  to. 

CLARE.  Please  tell  me  quickly,  what  you've  come  for. 

TWISDEN.  [Bowing  slightly]  I  am  instructed  by  Mr. 
Dedmond  to  say  that  if  you  will  leave  your  present 
companion  and  undertake  not  to  see  him  again,  he 
will  withdraw  the  suit  and  settle  three  hundred  a 
year  on  you.  [At  CLABE'S  movement  of  abhorrence] 
Don't  misunderstand  me,  please — it  is  not — it  could 
hardly  be,  a  request  that  you  should  go  back.  Mr.' 
Dedmond  is  not  prepared  to  receive  you  again.  The 
proposal — forgive  my  saying  so — remarkably  Quixotic 


70  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  m 

— is  made  to  save  the  scandal  to  his  family  and  your 
own.  It  binds  you  to  nothing  but  the  abandonment 
of  your  present  companion,  with  certain  conditions  of 
the  same  nature  as  to  the  future.  In  other  words,  it 
assures  you  a  position — so  long  as  you  live  quietly  by 
yourself. 

CLABE.  I  see.  Will  you  please  thank  Mr.  Dedmond, 
and  say  that  I  refuse? 

MBS.  FULLABTON.  Clare,  Clare!  For  God's  sake 
don't  be  desperate. 

[CLABE,  deathly  still,  just  looks  at  her. 

TWISDEN.  Mrs.  Dedmond,  I  am  bound  to  put  the 
position  to  you  in  its  naked  brutality.  You  know 
there's  a  claim  for  damages? 

CLABE.  I  have  just  learnt  it. 

TWISDEN.  You  realize  what  the  result  of  this  suit 
must  be:  You  will  be  left  dependent  on  an  undischarged 
bankrupt.  To  put  it  another  way,  you'll  be  a  stone 
round  the  neck  of  a  drowning  man. 

CLABE.  You  are  cowards. 

MBS.  FULLABTON.  Clare,  Clare!  [To  TWISDEN]  She 
doesn't  mean  it;  please  be  patient. 

CLARE.  I  do  mean  it.  You  ruin  him  because  of  me. 
You  get  him  down,  and  kick  him  to  intimidate  me. 

MBS.  FULLABTON.  My  dear  girl!  Mr.  Twisden  is 
not  personally  concerned.  How  can  you? 

CLABE.  If  I  were  dying,  and  it  would  save  me,  I 
wouldn't  take  a  penny  from  my  husband. 

TWISDEN.  Nothing  could  be  more  bitter  than  those 


BC.  n  THE  FUGITIVE  71 

words.     Do  you  really  wish  me  to  take  them  back  to 
him? 

CLARE.  Yes.  [She  turns  from  them  to  the  fire. 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  [In  a  low  voice  to  TWISDEN]  Please 
leave  me  alone  with  her,  don't  say  anything  to  Mr. 
Dedmond  yet. 

TWISDEN.  Mrs.  Dedmond,  I  told  you  once  that  I 
wished  you  well.  Though  you  have  called  me  a  cow- 
ard, I  still  do  that.  For  God's  sake,  think — before 
it's  too  late. 

CLARE.  [Putting  out  her  hand  blindly]  I'm  sorry  I 
called  you  a  coward.  It's  the  whole  thing,  I  meant. 

TWISDEN.  Never  mind  that.     Think! 

With  the  curious  little  movement  of  one  who  sees 
something  he  does  not  like  to  see,  he  goes.  CLARE 
is  leaning  her  forehead  against  the  mantelshelf, 
seemingly  unconscious  that  she  is  not  alone. 
MRS.  FULLARTON  approaches  quietly  till  she  can 
see  CLARE'S  face. 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  My  dear  sweet  thing,  don't  be 
cross  with  met  [CLARE  turns  from  her.  It  is  all  the 
time  as  if  she  were  trying  to  get  away  from  words  and 
people  to  something  going  on  within  herself]  How  can  I 
help  wanting  to  see  you  saved  from  all  this  ghastliness? 

CLARE.  Please  don't,  Dolly!    Let  me  be! 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  I  must  speak,  Clare!  I  do  think 
you're  hard  on  George.  It's  generous  of  him  to  offer 
to  withdraw  the  suit — considering.  You  do  owe  it  to 
us  to  try  and  spare  your  father  and  your  sisters  and — 
and  all  of  us  who  care  for  you. 


72  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  m 

CLARE.  [Facing  her]  You  say  George  is  generous! 
If  he  wanted  to  be  that  he'd  never  have  claimed  those 
damages.  It's  revenge  he  wants — I  heard  him  here. 
You  think  I've  done  him  an  injury.  So  I  did — when 
I  married  him.  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  come  to, 
Dolly,  but  I  shan't  fall  so  low  as  to  take  money  from 
him.  That's  as  certain  as  that  I  shall  die. 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  Do  you  know,  Clare,  I  think  it's 
awful  about  you!  You're  too  fine,  and  not  fine 
enough,  to  put  up  with  things;  you're  too  sensitive 
to  take  help,  and  you're  not  strong  enough  to  do  with- 
out it.  It's  simply  tragic.  At  any  rate,  you  might 
go  home  to  your  people. 

CLARE.  After  this  I 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  To  us,  then? 

CLARE.  "If  I  could  be  the  falling  bee,  and  kiss  thee 
all  the  day!"  No,  Dolly! 

MRS.  FULLARTON  turns  from  her  ashamed  and 
baffled,  but  her  quick  eyes  take  in  the  room,  try- 
ing to  seize  on  some  new  point  of  attack. 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  You  can't  be — you  aren't — happy, 
here  ? 

CLARE.  Aren't  I  ? 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  Oh!  Clare!  Save  yourself — and 
all  of  us! 

CLARE.  [Very  still]  You  see,  I  love  him. 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  You  used  to  say  you'd  never  love; 
did  not  want  it — would  never  want  it. 

CLARE.  Did  I  ?    How  funny ! 


sc.  n  THE  FUGITIVE  73 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  Oh!  my  dear!  Don't  look  like 
that,  or  you'll  make  me  cry. 

CLARE.  One  doesn't  always  know  the  future,  does 
one?  [Desperately]  I  love  him!  I  love  him! 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  [Suddenly]  If  you  love  him,  what 
will  it  be  like  for  you,  knowing  you've  ruined  him? 
CLARE.  Go  away!    Go  away! 
MRS.  FULLARTON.  Love! — you  said! 
CLARE.  [Quivering  at  that  stab — suddenly]  I  must — • 
I  will  keep  him.     He's  all  I've  got. 
MRS.  FULLARTON.  Can  you — can  you  keep  him? 
CLARE.  Go! 

MRS.  FULLARTON.  I'm  going.  But,  men  are  hard  to 
keep,  even  when  you've  not  been  the  ruin  of  them. 
You  know  whether  the  love  this  man  gives  you  is 
really  love.  If  not — God  help  you!  [She  turns  at  the 
door,  and  says  mournfully]  Good-bye,  my  child!  If 

you  can 

Then  goes.  CLARE,  almost  in  a  whisper,  repeats 
the  words:  "Love!  you  said!"  At  the  sound  of 
a  latchkey  she  runs  as  if  to  escape  into  the  bed- 
room, but  changes  her  mind  and  stands  blot- 
ted against  the  curtain  of  the  door.  MALJSE 
enters.  For  a  moment  he  does  not  see  her  stand- 
ing there  against  the  curtain  that  is  much  the 
same  colour  as  her  dress.  His  face  is  that  of  a 
man  in  the  grip  of  a  rage  that  he  feels  to  be  im- 
potent. Then,  seeing  her,  he  pulls  himself  to- 
gether, walks  to  his  armchair,  and  sits  down 
there  in  his  hat  and  coat. 


74  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  ra 

CLARE.  Well?  "The  Watchfire?"  You  may  as 
well  tell  me. 

MAUSE.  Nothing  to  tell  you,  child. 

At  that  touch  of  tenderness  she  goes  up  to  his 
chair  and  kneels  down  beside  it.  Mechanically 
MALISE  takes  off  his  hat. 

CLARE.  Then  you  are  to  lose  that,  too?  [MALISE 
stares  at  her]  I  know  about  it — never  mind  how. 

MALISE.  Sanctimonious  dogs! 

CLARE.  [Very  low]  There  are  other  things  to  be  got, 
aren't  there? 

MALISE.  Thick  as  blackberries.  I  just  go  out  and 
cry,  "Malise,  unsuccessful  author,  too  honest  journal- 
ist, freethinker,  co-respondent,  bankrupt,"  and  they 
tumble! 

CLARE.  [Quietly]  Kenneth,  do  you  care  for  me? 
[MALISE  stares  at  her]  Am  I  anything  to  you  but  just 
prettiness? 

MALISE.  Now,  now!  This  isn't  the  time  to  brood! 
Rouse  up  and  fight. 

CLARE.  Yes. 

MALISE.  We're  not  going  to  let  them  down  us,  are 
we?  [She  rubs  her  cheek  against  his  hand,  that  still  rests 
on  her  shoulder]  Life  on  sufferance,  breath  at  the  pleas- 
ure of  the  enemy!  And  some  day  in  the  fullness  of 
his  mercy  to  be  made  a  present  of  the  right  to  eat  and 
drink  and  breathe  again.  [His  gesture  sums  up  the  rage 
within  him]  Fine!  [He  puts  his  hat  on  and  rises]  That's 
the  last  groan  they  get  from  me. 

CLARE.  Are  you  going  out  again?  [He  nods]  Where? 


sc.  n  THE  FUGITIVE  75 

MALISE.  Blackberry  ing!  Our  train's  not  till  six. 
He  goes  into  the  bedroom.  CLARE  gets  up  and 
stands  by  the  fire,  looking  round  in  a  dazed 
way.  She  puts  her  hand  up  and  mechanic- 
ally gathers  together  the  violets  in  the  little 
vase.  Suddenly  she  twists  them  to  a  button- 
hole, and  sinks  down  into  the  armchair,  which 
he  must  pass.  There  she  sits,  the  violets  in  her 
hand.  MALISE  comes  out  and  crosses  towards 
the  outer  door.  She  puts  the  violets  up  to  him. 
He  stares  at  them,  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and 
passes  on.  For  just  a  moment  CLARK  sits 
motionless. 

CLARE.  [Quietly}  Give  me  a  kiss! 

He  turns  and  kisses  her.  But  his  lips,  after 
that  kiss,  have  the  furtive  bitterness  one  sees 
on  the  lips  of  those  who  have  done  what  does 
not  suit  their  mood.  He  goes  out.  She  is  left 
motionless  by  the  armchair,  her  throat  working. 
Then,  feverishly,  she  goes  to  the  little  table, 
seizes  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  writes.  Looking  up 
suddenly  she  sees  that  MRS.  MILER  has  let 
herself  in  with  her  latchkey. 

MRS.  MILER.  I've  settled  the  baker,  the  milk,  the 
washin'  an'  the  groceries — this  'ere's  what's  left. 

She  counts  down  a  five-pound  note,  four  sovereigns, 
and  two  shillings  on  to  the  little  table.  CLARE 
folds  the  letter  into  an  envelope,  then  takes  up 
the  five-pound  note  and  puts  it  into  her  dress. 

CLARE.  [Pointing  to  the  money  on  the  table}  Take 


76  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  m 

your  wages;  and  give  him  this  when  he  comes  in.    I'm 
going  away. 

MRS.  MILER.  Without  him?  When'll  you  be  comin' 
back? 

CLARE.  [Rising]  I  shan't  be  coming  back.  [Gazing 
at  MRS.  MILER'S  hands,  which  are  plaiting  at  her  dress] 
I'm  leaving  Mr.  Malise,  and  shan't  see  him  again. 
And  the  suit  against  us  will  be  withdrawn — the  divorce 
suit — you  understand? 

MRS.  MILER.  [Her  face  all  broken  up]  I  never  meant 
to  say  anything  to  yer. 

CLARE.  It's  not  you.  I  can  see  for  myself.  Don't 
make  it  harder;  help  me.  Get  a  cab. 

MRS.  MILER.  [Disturbed  to  the  heart]  The  porter's 
outside,  cleanin'  the  landin'  winder. 

CLARE.  Tell  him  to  come  for  my  trunk.  It  is 
packed.  [She  goes  into  the  bedroom. 

MRS.  MILER.  [Opening  the  door — desolately]  Come 
'ere! 

[The  PORTER  appears  in  shirt-sleeves  at  the  door. 
MRS.  MILER.  The   lady   wants   a   cab.     Wait   and 
carry  'er  trunk  down. 

CLARE  comes  from  the  bedroom  in  her  hat  and 

coat. 
MRS.  MILER.  [To  the  PORTER]  Now. 

They  go  into  the  bedroom  to  get  the  trunk.  CLARE 
picks  up  from  the  floor  the  bunch  of  violets,  her 
fingers  play  with  it  as  if  they  did  not  quite  know 
what  it  was ;  and  she  stands  by  the  armchair  very 
still,  while  MRS.  MILER  and  the  PORTER  pass 


sc.  ii  THE  FUGITIVE  77 

her  with  trunk  and  bag.  And  even  after  the 
PORTER  has  shouldered  the  trunk  outside,  and 
marched  away,  and  MRS.  MILER  has  come  back 
into  the  room,  CLARE  still  stands  there. 

MRS.  MILER.  [Pointing  to  the  typewriter]  D'you  want 
this  'ere,  too? 

CLARE.  Yes. 

MRS.  MILER  carries  it  out.  Then,  from  the  door- 
way, gazing  at  CLARE  taking  her  last  look,  she 
sobs,  suddenly.  At  sound  of  that  sob  CLARE 
throws  up  her  head. 

CLARE.  Don't!    It's  all  right.     Good-bye! 

She  walks  out  and  away,  not  looking  back.  MRS. 
MILER  chokes  her  sobbing  into  the  black  stuff 
qf  her  thick  old  jacket. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  IV 

SUPPER-TIME  in  a  small  room  at  "The  Gascony"  on 
Derby  Day.  Through  the  windows  of  a  broad 
corridor,  out  of  which  the  door  opens,  is  seen  the 
dark  blue  of  a  summer  night.  The  walls  are  of 
apricot-gold;  the  carpets,  curtains,  lamp-shades, 
and  gilded  chairs,  of  red;  the  wood-work  and  screens 
white;  the  palms  in  gilded  tubs.  A  doorway  that 
has  no  door  leads  to  another  small  room.  One 
little  table  behind  a  screen,  and  one  little  table  in 
the  open,  are  set  for  two  persons  each.  On  a  serv- 
ice-table, above  which  hangs  a  speaking-tube,  are 
some  dishes  of  hors  d'ceuvres,  a  basket  of  peaches, 
two  bottles  of  champagne  in  ice-pails,  and  a  small 
barrel  of  oysters  in  a  gilded  tub.  ABNAUD,  the 
waiter,  slim,  dark,  quick,  his  face  seamed  with  a 
quiet,  soft  irony,  is  opening  oysters  and  listening 
to  the  robust  joy  of  a  distant  supper-party,  where  a 
man  is  playing  the  last  bars  of:  "Do  ye  ken  John 
Peel"  on  a  horn.  As  the  sound  dies  away,  he 
murmurs:  "Tres  Joli!"  and  opens  another  oyster. 
Two  Ladies  with  bare  shoulders  and  large  hats  pass 
down  the  corridor.  Their  talk  is  faintly  wafted  in : 
"Well,  I  never  like  Derby  night!  The  boys  do 
get  so  bobbish!"  "That  horn— vulgar,  I  call  it!" 
79 


80  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  iv 

ARNATTD'S  eyebrows  rise,  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
droop.  A  Lady  with  bare  shoulders,  and  crimson 
roses  in  her  hair,  comes  along  the  corridor,  and  stops 
for  a  second  at  the  window,  for  a  man  to  join  her. 
They  come  through  into  the  room.  ARNAUD  has 
sprung  to  attention,  but  with:  "Let's  go  in  here, 
shall  we?"  they  pass  through  into  the  further  room. 
The  MANAGER,  a  gentleman  with  neat  moustaches, 
and  buttoned  into  a  frock-coat,  has  appeared,  brisk, 
noiseless,  his  eyes  everywhere;  he  inspects  the  peaches. 

MANAGER.  Four  shillin'  apiece  to-night,  see? 
ARNAUD.  Yes,  Sare. 

From  the  inner  room  a  young  man  and  his  partner 
have  come  in.  She  is  dark,  almost  Spanish- 
looking;  he  fair,  languid,  pale,  clean-shaved, 
slackly  smiling,  with  half-closed  eyes — one  of 
those  who  are  bred  and  dissipated  to  the  point  of 
having  lost  all  save  the  capacity  for  hiding  their 
emotions.  He  speaks  in  a — 

LANGUID  VOICE.  Awful  row  they're  kickin'  up  in 
there,  Mr.  Varley.  A  fellow  with  a  horn. 

MANAGER.  [Blandly]  Gaddesdon  Hunt,  my  lord — 
always  have  their  supper  with  us,  Derby  night.  Quiet 
corner  here,  my  lord.  Arnaud! 

ARNAUD  is  already  at  the  table,  between  screen 
and  palm.  And,  there  ensconced,  the  couple 
take  their  seats.  Seeing  them  safely  landed,  the 
MANAGER,  brisk  and  noiseless,  moves  away. 
In  the  corridor  a  lady  in  black,  with  a  cloak  fall- 


ACT  iv  THE  FUGITIVE  81 

ing  open,  seems  uncertain  whether  to  come  in. 
She  advances  into  the  doorway.     It  is  CLARE. 
ABNAUD.  [Pointing  to  the  other  table  as  he  flies  uaith 
dishes]  Nice  table,  Madame. 

CLARE  moves  to  the  corner  of  it.     An  artist  in 
observation  of  his  clients,   ARNAUD  takes  in 
her  face — very  pale  under  her  wavy,  simply- 
dressed  hair;    shadowy  beneath  the  eyes;  not 
powdered;  her  lips  not  reddened;  without  a  sin- 
gle ornament;  takes  in  her  black  dress,  finely 
cut,  her  arms  and  neck  beautifully  white,  and 
at  her  breast  three  gardenias.     And  as  he  nears 
her,  she  lifts  her  eyes.     It  is  very  much  the  look 
of  something  lost,  appealing  for  guidance. 
ARNAUD.  Madame  is  waiting  for  some  one?  [She 
shakes  her  head]  Then  Madame  will  be  veree  well  here — 
veree  well.    I  take  Madame's  cloak? 

He  takes  the  cloak  gently  and  lays  it  on  the  back  of 
the  chair  fronting  the  room,  that  she  may  put  it 
round  her  when  she  wishes.     She  sits  down. 
LANGUID  VOICE.  [From  the  corner]  Waiter! 
ARNAUD.  Milord! 
LANGUID  VOICE.  The  Roederer. 
ARNAUD.  At  once,  milord. 

CLARE  sits  tracing  a  pattern  with  her  finger  on 
the  cloth,  her  eyes  lowered.     Once  she  raises 
them,  and  follows  ARNAUD'S  dark  rapid  figure. 
ARNAUD.  [Returning]  Madame   feels   the    'eat?  [He 
scans  her  with  increased  curiosity]  You  wish  something, 
Madame? 


82  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  iv 

CLARE.  [Again  giving  him  that  look]  Must  I  order? 
ABNAUD.  Non,   Madame,   it  is   not  necessary.     A 
glass  of  water.     [He  pours  it  out]  I  have  not  the  pleas- 
ure of  knowing  Madame's  face. 
CLARE.  [Faintty  smiling]  No. 

ARNAUD.  Madame  will  find  it  veree  good  'ere,  veree 
quiet. 

LANGUID  VOICE.  Waiter! 

ARNAUD.  Pardon !  [He  goes. 

The  bare-necked  ladies  with  large  hats  again  pass 
down  the  corridor  outside,  and  again  their 
voices  are  wafted  in:  "Tottie!  Not  she!  Oh! 
my  goodness,  she  has  got  a  pride  on  her!" 
"Bobbie'll  never  stick  it!"  "Look  here, 

dear "   Galvanized  by  those  sounds,  CLARE 

has  caught  her  cloak  and  half -risen;  they  die 
away  and  she  subsides. 

ARNAUD.  {Back  at  her  table,  with  a  quaint  shrug  to- 
wards the  corridor]  It  is  not  rowdy  here,  Madame,  as  a 
rule — not  as  in  some  places.  To-night  a  little  noise. 
Madame  is  fond  of  flowers?  [He  whisks  out,  and  returns 
almost  at  once  with  a  bowl  of  carnations  from  some  table 
in  the  next  room]  These  smell  good! 
CLARE.  You  are  very  kind. 

ARNAUD.  [With  courtesy]  Not  at  all,   Madame;   a 

pleasure.  [He  bows. 

A  young    man,  tatt,    thin,  hard,  straight,  with 

close-cropped,  sandyish  hair  and  moustache,  a 

face  tanned  very  red,  and  one  of  those  small, 

long,  lean  heads  that  only  grow  in  Britain; 


ACT  iv  THE  FUGITIVE  83 

clad  in  a  thin  dark  overcoat  thrown  open,  an 
opera  hat  pushed  back,  a  white  waistcoat  round 
his  lean  middle,  he  comes  in  from  the  corridor. 
He  looks  round,  glances  at  CLARE,  passes  her 
table  towards  the  further  room,  stops  in  the  door- 
way, and  looks  back  at  her.  Her  eyes  have  just 
been  lifted,  and  are  at  once  cast  down  again. 
The  young  man  wavers,  catches  ABNAUD'S  eye, 
jerks  his  head  to  summon  him,  and  passes  into 
the  further  room.  ARNAUD  takes  up  the  vase 
that  has  been  superseded,  and  follows  him  out. 
And  CLARE  sits  alone  in  silence,  broken  by  the 
murmurs  of  the  languid  lord  and  his  partner, 
behind  the  screen.  She  is  breathing  as  if  she 
had  been  running  hard.  She  lifts  her  eyes. 
The  tall  young  man,  divested  of  hat  and  coat, 
is  standing  by  her  table,  holding  out  his  hand 
with  a  sort  of  bashful  hardiness. 
YOUNG  MAN.  How  d'you  do?  Didn't  recognize  you 

at  first.     So  sorry — awfully  rude  of  me. 

CLARE'S  eyes  seem  to  fly  from  him,  to  appeal  to 

him,  to  resign  herself  all  at  once.    Something  in 

the  YOUNG  MAN  responds.    He  drops  his  hand. 

CLARE.  [Faintly]  How  d'you  do? 

YOUNG  MAN.  {Stammering}  You — you    been    down 

there  to-day? 
CLARE.  Where? 
YOUNG  MAN.  [With  a  smile]  The   Derby.    What? 

Don't  you  generally  go  down?  [He  touches  the  other 

chair]  May  I? 


84  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  iv 

CLARE.  [Almost  in  a  whisper]  Yes. 

As  he  sits  down,  ARNATJD  returns  and  stands 

before  them. 

ARNAUD.  The  plovers'  eggs  veree  good  to-night, 
Sare.  Veree  good,  Madame.  A  peach  or  two,  after. 
Veree  good  peaches.  The  Roederer,  Sare — not  bad 
at  all.  Madame  likes  it  frappS,  but  not  too  cold — 
yes? 

[He  is  away  again  to  his  service-table,. 
YOUNG  MAN.  [Burying  his  face  in  the  carnations]  I 
say — these  are  jolly,  aren't  they?    They  do  you  pretty 
well  here. 
CLARE.  Do  they? 

YOUNG  MAN.  You've  never  been  here?  [CLARE 
shakes  her  head]  By  Jove!  I  thought  I  didn't  know 
your  face.  [CLARE  looks  full  at  him.  Again  something 
moves  in  the  YOUNG  MAN,  and  he  stammers]  I  mean — 

not 

CLARE.  It  doesn't  matter. 

YOUNG  MAN.  [Respectfully]  Of  course,  if  I — if  you 

were  waiting  for  anybody,  or  anything — I 

[He  half  rises* 
CLARE.  It's  all  right,  thank  you. 

The  YOUNG  MAN  sits  down  again,  uncomfort- 
able,   nonplussed.     There    is    silence,    broken 
by  the  inaudible  words  of  the  languid  lord, 
and  the  distant  merriment  of  the  supper-party, 
ARNAUD  brings  the  plovers'  eggs. 
YOUNG  MAN.  The  wine,  quick. 
ARNAUD.  At  once,  Sare. 


ACT  iv  THE  FUGITIVE  85 

YOUNG  MAN.  [Abruptly]  Don't  you  ever  go  racing, 
then? 

CLARE.  No. 

[ABNAUD  pours  out  champagne. 

YOUNG  MAN.  I  remember  awfully  well  my  first 
day.  It  was  pretty  thick — lost  every  blessed  bob,  and 
my  watch  and  chain,  playin'  three  cards  on  the  way 
home. 

CLARE.  Everything  has  a  beginning,  hasn't  it? 

[She  drinks.     The  YOUNG  MAN  stares  at  her. 
YOUNG   MAN.  [Floundering   in   these   waters  deeper 
than  he  had  bargained  for]  I  say — about  things  having 
beginnings — did  you  mean  anything? 

[CLARE  nods. 
YOUNG  MAN.  What!    D'you  mean   it's  really  the 

first ? 

CLARE  nods.     The  champagne    has  flicked   her 

courage. 

YOUNG  MAN.  By  George!  [He  leans  back]  I've  often 
wondered. 

ARNAUD.  [Again     filling     the     glasses]     Monsieur 

finds 

YOUNG  MAN.  [Abruptly]  It's  all  right. 

He  drains  his  glass,  then  sits  bolt  upright.  Chiv- 
alry and  the  camaraderie  of  class  have  begun  to 
stir  in  him. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Of  course  I  can  see  that  you're  not 
• — I  mean,  that  you're  a — a  lady.  [CLARE  smiles]  And 
I  say,  you  know — if  you  have  to — because  you're  in  a 
hole — I  should  feel  a  cad.  Let  me  lend  you ? 


86  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  iv 

CLARE.  [Holding  up  her  glass]   Le  vin  est  tire,   il 
faut  le  boiret 

She  drinks.  The  French  words,  which  he  does 
not  too  well  understand,  completing  his  convic- 
tion that  she  is  a  lady,  he  remains  quite  silent, 
frowning.  As  CLARE  held  up  her  glass,  two  gen- 
tlemen have  entered.  The  first  is  blond,  of  good 
height  and  a  comely  insolence.  His  crisp,  fair 
hair,  and  fair  brushed-up  moustache  are  just  go- 
ing grey;  an  eyeglass  is  fixed  in  one  of  two  eyes 
that  lord  it  over  every  woman  they  see;  his  face  is 
broad,  and  coloured  with  air  and  wine.  His 
companion  is  a  tall,  thin,  dark  bird  of  the  night, 
with  sly,  roving  eyes,  and  hollow  cheeks.  They 
stand  looking  round,  then  pass  into  the  further 
room;  but  in  passing,  they  have  stared  unre- 
servedly at  CLARE. 

YOUNG  MAN.  [Seeing  her  wince]  Look  here!    I'm 
afraid  you  must  feel  me  rather  a  brute,  you  know. 
CLARE.   No,  I  don't;  really. 

YOUNG   MAN.  Are   you   absolute   stoney?    [CLARE 
nods]  But  [Looking  at  her  frock  and  cloak]  you're  so 

awfully  well 

CLARE.  I  had  the  sense  to  keep  them. 
YOUNG  MAN.  [More  and  more  disturbed]  I  say,  you 
know — I  wish  you'd  let  me  lend  you  something.     I 
had  quite  a  good  day  down  there. 

CLARE.  [Again  tracing  her  pattern  on  the  cloth — then 
looking  up  at  him  full]  I  can't  take,  for  nothing. 

YOUNG  MAN.  By  Jove!    I  don't  know — really,    I 


ACT  iv  THE  FUGITIVE  87 

don't — this  makes  me  feel  pretty  rotten.  I  mean,  it's 
your  being  a  lady. 

CLARE.  [Smiling]  That's  not  your  fault,  is  it?  You 
see,  I've  been  beaten  all  along  the  line.  And  I  really 
don't  care  what  happens  to  me.  [She  has  that  peculiar 
fey  look  on  her  face  now]  I  really  don't;  except  that  I 
don't  take  charity.  It's  lucky  for  me  it's  you,  and  not 

some 

The  supper-party  is  getting  still  more  boisterous, 
and  there  comes  a  long  view  holloa,  and  a  blast 
of  the  horn. 

YOUNG  MAN.  But  I  say,  what  about  your  people? 
You  must  have  people  of  some  sort. 

He  is  fast  becoming  fascinated,  for  her  cheeks  have 
begun  to  flush  and  her  eyes  to  shine. 

CLARE.  Oh,  yes;  I've  had  people,  and  a  husband,  and 

— everything And  here  I  am!     Queer,  isn't  it? 

[She  touches  her  glass]  This  is  going  to  my  head!  Do 
you  mind?  I  sha'n't  sing  songs  and  get  up  and  dance, 
and  I  won't  cry,  I  promise  you ! 

YOUNG  MAN.  [Between  fascination  and  chivalry]  By 
George!  One  simply  can't  believe  in  this  happening 
to  a  lady 

CLARE.  Have  you  got  sisters?  [Breaking  into  her  soft 
laughter]  My  brother's  in  India.  I  sha'n't  meet  him, 
anyway. 

YOUNG  MAN.  No,  but — I  say — are  you  really  quite 
cut  off  from  everybody?  [CLARE  nods]  Something 
rather  awful  must  have  happened? 

She  smiles.     The  two  gentlemen  have  returned. 


88  THE   FUGITIVE  ACT  iv 

The  blond  one  is  again  staring  fixedly  at  CLARE. 
This  time  she  looks  back  at  him,  flaming;  and, 
with  a  little  laugh,  he  passes  with  his  friend  into 
the  corridor. 

CLARE.  Who  are  those  two? 

YOUNG  MAN.  Don't  know — not  been  much  about 
town  yet.  I'm  just  back  from  India  myself.  You  said 
your  brother  was  there;  what's  his  regiment? 

CLARE.  [Shaking  her  head]  You're  not  going  to  find 
out  my  name.  I  haven't  got  one — nothing. 

She  leans  her  bare  elbows  on  the  table,  and  her 

face  on  her  hands. 

CLARE.  First  of  June!  This  day  last  year  I  broke 
covert — I've  been  running  ever  since. 

YOUNG   MAN.  I   don't   understand   a   bit.     You — 

must  have  had  a — a — some  one 

But  there  is  such  a  change  in  her  face,  such  rigid- 
ity of  her  whole  body,  tfiat  he  stops  and  averts 
his  eyes.     WJien  he  looks  again  she  is  drinking. 
She  puts  the  glass  down,  and  gives  a  little  laugh. 
YOUNG  MAN.  [With  a  sort  of  awe]  Anyway  it  must 
have  been  like  riding  at  a  pretty  stiff  fence,  for  you  to 
come  here  to-night. 

CLARE.  Yes.     What's  the  other  side? 

The  YOUNG  MAN  puts  out  his  hand  and  touches 
her  arm.  It  is  meant  for  sympathy,  but  she 
takes  it  for  attraction. 

CLARE.  [Shaking  her  head]  Not  yet — please!  I'm 
enjoying  this.  May  I  have  a  cigarette? 

[He  takes  out  his  case,  and  gives  her  one* 


ACT  iv  THE  FUGITIVE  89 

CLARE.  [Letting  the  smoke  slowly  forth]  Yes,  I'm  en- 
joying it.  Had  a  pretty  poor  time  lately;  not  enough 
to  eat,  sometimes. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Not  really!  How  damnable!  I  say 
— do  have  something  more  substantial. 

CLARE  gives  a  sudden  gasp,  as  if  going  off  into 
hysterical  laughter,  but  she  stifles  it,  and  shakes 
her  head. 
YOUNG  MAN.  A  peach? 

[ARNAUD  brings  peaches  to  the  table. 
CLARE.  [Smiling]  Thank  you. 

[He  fills  their  glasses  and  retreats. 
CLARE.  [Raising  her  glass]  Eat  and  drink,  for  to- 
morrow we — Listen! 

From  the  supper-party  comes  the  sound  of  an 
abortive  chorus:  "With  a  hey  ho,  chivy,  hark 
forrard,  hark  forrard,  tantivy!"     Jarring  out 
into  a  discordant  whoop,  it  sinks. 
CLARE.  "This  day  a  stag  must  die."     Jolly  old  song! 
YOUNG  MAN.  Rowdy  lot!  [Suddenly]  I  say — I  ad- 
mire your  pluck. 

CLARE.  [Shaking  her  head]  Haven't  kept  my  end  up. 
Lots  of  women  do!    You  see:  I'm  too  fine,  and  not 
fine  enough!    My  best  friend  said  that.    Too  fine, 
and  not  fine  enough.  [She  laughs]  I  couldn't  be  a  saint 
and  martyr,  and  I  wouldn't  be  a  soulless  doll.     Neither 
one  thing  nor  the  other — that's  the  tragedy. 
YOUNG  MAN.  You  must  have  had  awful  luck! 
CLARE.  I  did  try.  [Fiercely]  But  what's  the  good — 
when  there's  nothing  before  you? — Do  I  look  ill? 


90  THE  FUGITIVE  ACT  iv 

YOUNG  MAN.  No;  simply  awfully  pretty. 

CLAKE.  [With  a  laugh]  A  man  once  said  to  me: 
"As  you  haven't  money,  you  should  never  have  been 
pretty!"  But,  you  see,  it  is  some  good.  If  I  hadn't 
been,  I  couldn't  have  risked  coming  here,  could  I? 
Don't  you  think  it  was  rather  sporting  of  me  to  buy 
these  [She  touches  the  gardenias]  with  the  last  shilling 
over  from  my  cab  fare? 

YOUNG  MAN.  Did  you  really?    D d  sporting! 

CLARE.  It's  no  use  doing  things  by  halves,  is  it? 
I'm — in  for  it — wish  me  luck!  [She  drinks,  and  puts 
her  glass  dmvn  with  a  smile]  In  for  it — deep!  [She 
flings  up  her  hands  above  her  smiling  face}  Down,  down, 
till  they're  just  above  water,  and  then — down,  down, 
down,  and — all  over!  Are  you  sorry  now  you  came 
and  spoke  to  me? 

YOUNG  MAN.  By  Jove,  no!  It  may  be  caddish,  but 
I'm  not. 

CLARE.  Thank  God  for  beauty!  I  hope  I  shall  die 
pretty!  Do  you  think  I  shall  do  well? 

YOUNG  MAN.  I  say — don't  talk  like  that! 

CLARE.  I  want  to  know.     Do  you? 

YOUNG  MAN.  Well,  then — yes,  I  do. 

CLARE.  That's  splendid.  Those  poor  women  in  the 
streets  would  give  their  eyes,  wouldn't  they? — that 
have  to  go  up  and  down,  up  and  down!  Do  you 
think  I— shall— 

The  YOUNG  MAN,  half-rising,  puts  his  hand  on 
her  arm. 

YOUNG  MAN.  I  think  you're  getting  much  too  ex- 


ACT  iv  THE  FUGITIVE  91 

cited.    You   look   all — Won't   you   eat   your   peach? 
[She  shakes  her  head]  Do!    Have  something  else,  then 
— some  grapes,  or  something? 
CLARE.  No,  thanks. 

[She  has  become  quite  calm  again. 
YOUNG  MAN.  Well,  then,  what  d'you  think?    It's 
awfully  hot  in  here,  isn't  it?    Wouldn't  it  be  jollier 
drivin'?    Shall  we — shall  we  make  a  move? 
CLARE.  Yes. 

The  YOUNG  MAN  turns  to  look  for  the  waiter, 
but  ARNAUD  is  not  in  the  room.  He  gets  up. 

YOUNG  MAN.  [Feverishly]  D n  that  waiter!  Wait 

half  a  minute,  if  you  don't  mind,  while  I  pay  the  bill. 

As  he  goes  out  into  the  corridor,  the  two  gentlemen 
re-appear.     CLARE  is  sitting  motionless,  look- 
ing straight  before  her. 
DARK  ONE.  A  fiver  you  don't  get  her  to! 
BLOND  ONE.  Done! 

He  advances  to  her  table  with  his  inimitable  inso- 
lence, and  taking  the  cigar  from  his  mouth, 
bends  his  stare  on  her,  and  says :  "  Charmed  to 
see  you  lookin'  so  well!  Will  you  have  sup- 
per with  me  here  to-morrow  night?"  Startled 
out  of  her  reverie,  CLARE  looks  up.  She  sees 
those  eyes,  she  sees  beyond  him  the  eyes  of  his 
companion — sly,  malevolent,  amused — watch- 
ing; and  she  just  sits  gazing,  without  a  word. 
At  that  regard,  so  clear,  the  BLOND  ONE  does  not 
wince.  But  rather  suddenly  he  says:  "That's 
arranged  then.  Half-past  eleven.  So  good 
of  you.  Good-night!"  He  replaces  his  cigar 


92  THE   FUGITIVE  ACT  ir 

and  strolls  back  to  his  companion,  and  in  a  low 
voice  says:  "Pay  up!"  Then  at  a  languid 
"Hullo,  Charles!"  they  turn  to  greet  the  two  in 
their  nook  behind  the  screen.  CLARE  has  not 
moved,  nor  changed  the  direction  of  her  gaze. 
Suddenly  she  thrusts  her  hand  into  the  'pocket 
of  the  cloak  that  hangs  behind  her,  and  brings 
out  the  little  blue  bottle  which,  six  months  ago, 
she  took  from  MALISE.  She  pulls  out  the  cm-k 
and  pours  the  whole  contents  into  her  champagne. 
She  lifts  the  glass,  holds  it  before  her — smiling, 
as  if  to  call  a  toast,  then  puts  it  to  her  lips  and 
drinks.  Still  smiling,  she  sets  the  empty  glass 
down,  and  lays  the  gardenia  flowers  against 
her  face.  Slowly  she  droops  back  in  her  chair, 
the  drowsy  smile  still  on  her  lips ;  the  gardenias 
drop  into  her  lap;  her  arms  relax,  her  head  falls 
forward  on  her  breast.  And  the  voices  behind 
the  screen  talk  on,  and  the  sounds  of  joy  from  the 
supper-party  wax  and  wane. 
The  waiter,  ARNAUD,  returning  from  the  corridor, 
passes  to  his  service-table  with  a  tall,  be-rib- 
boned  basket  of  fruit.  Putting  it  down,  he  goes 
towards  the  table  behind  the  screen,  and  sees. 
He  runs  up  to  CLARE. 
ARNAUD.  Madame!  Madame!  [He  listens  for  her 

breathing ;  then  suddenly  catching  sight  of  the  little  bottle, 

smells  at  it]  Bon  Dieu! 

At  that  queer  sound  they  come  from  behind  the  screen 
— all  four,  and  look.  The  dark  night  bird  says : 
"Hallo;  fainted!"  ARNAUD  holds  out  the  bottle. 


ACT  iv  THE  FUGITIVE  03 

LANGUID  LORD.  [Taking  it,  and  smelling]  Good  God! 
The  woman  bends  over  CLARE,  and  lifts  her  hands; 
ARNATTD  rushes  to  his  service-table,  and  speaks 
into  his  tube: 

ARNAUD.  The  boss.  Quick!  [Looking  up  he  sees  the 
YOUNG  MAN,  returning]  Monsieur,  elle  a  fui  I  Elle  est 
morte  I 

LANGUID  LORD.  [To  the  YOUNG  MAN  standing  there 
aghast]  What's  this?  Friend  of  yours? 

YOUNG  MAN.  My  God !    She  was  a  lady.    That's 
all  I  know  about  her. 
LANGUID  LORD.  A  lady! 

The  blond  and  dark  gentlemen  have  slipped  from 
the  room;  and  out  of  the  supper-party's  distant 
laughter  comes  suddenly  a  long,  shrill:  "Gone 
away!"  And  the  sound  of  the  horn  playing 
the  seven  last  notes  of  the  old  song :  "This  day  a 
stag  must  die!"  From  the  last  note  of  all  the 
sound  flies  up  to  an  octave  higher,  sweet  and 
thin,  like  a  spirit  passing,  till  it  is  drowned 
once  more  in  laughter.  The  YOUNG  MAN  has 
covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands;  ARNAUD  is 
crossing  himself  fervently ;  the  LANGUID  LORD 
stands  gazing,  with  one  of  the  dropped  gardenias 
twisted  in  his  fingers;  and  the  woman,  bending 
over  CLARE,  kisses  her  forehead. 

CURTAIN. 


THE   PIGEON 

FANTASY  IN  THREE  ACTS 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

CHRISTOPHER  WELLWYN,  an  artist 
ANN,  his  daughter 
GUINEVERE  MEGAN,  a  flower-setter 
RORY  MEGAN,  her  husband 
FERRAND,  an  alien 
TIMSON,  once  a  cabman 
EDWARD  BERTLEY,  a  Canon 
ALFRED  CALWAY,  a  Professor 
SIR  THOMAS  HOXTON,  a  Justice  of  the  Peace 
Also  a  police  constable,  three  humble-men,  and  some 
curious  persons 

The  action  passes  in  Wettwyn's  Studio,  and  the  street  out* 
side. 

ACT      I.  Christmas  Eve. 
ACT    II.  New  Year's  Day. 
ACT  III.  The  First  of  April. 


CAST  OF  THE  FIRST  PRODUCTION 


MESSES.  J.  E.  VEDRENNE  AND   DENNIS  EADIE 

AT    THE 

ROYALTY  THEATRE,  LONDON,  ON  JANUARY  SOra,  1912 


CHRISTOPHER  WELLWTN 

ANN 

FERRAND 

TIMSON 

MRS.  MEGAN 

MEGAN 

CANON  BERTLEY 

PROFESSOR  CALWAT 

SIR  THOMAS  HOXTON 

POLICE  CONSTABLE 

FIRST  HUMBLE-MAN 

SECOND  HUMBLE-MAN 

THIRD  HUMBLE-MAN 

A  LOAFER 


MR.  WHITFORD  KANE 
Miss  GLADYS  COOPER 
MR.  DENNIS  EADIE 
MR.  WILFRED  SHINE 
Miss  MARGARET  MORRIS 
MR.  STANLEY  LOGAN 
MR.  HUBERT  HARBEN 
MR.  FRANK  VERNON 
MR.  FREDERICK  LLOYD 
MR.  ARTHUR  B.  MURRAY 
MR.  W.  LEMMON  WARDE 
MR.  F.  B.  J.  SHARP 
MR.  ARTHUR  BOWYER 
MR.  ARTHUR  BAXENDELL 


ACT  I 

It  i»  the  night  of  Christmas  Eve,  the  SCENE  is  a  Studio, 
flush  with  the  street,  having  a  skylight  darkened  by  a 
fall  of  snow.  There  is  no  one  in  the  room,  the  walls 
of  which  are  whitewashed,  above  a  floor  of  bare  dark 
boards.  A  fire  is  cheerfully  burning.  On  a  model's 
platform  stands  an  easel  and  canvas.  There  are 
busts  and  pictures;  a  screen,  a  little  stool,  two  arm- 
chairs, and  a  long  old-fashioned  settle  under  the  win- 
dow. A  door  in  one  wall  leads  to  the  house,  a  door 
in  the  opposite  wall  to  the  model's  dressing-room,  and 
the  street  door  is  in  the  centre  of  the  wall  between. 
On  a  low  table  a  Russian  samovar  is  hissing,  and 
beside  it  on  a  tray  stands  a  teapot,  with  glasses, 
lemon,  sugar,  and  a  decanter  of  rum.  Through  a 
huge  uncurtained  window  close  to  the  street  door  the 
snowy  lamplit  street  can  be  seen,  and  beyond  it  the 
river  and  a  night  of  stars. 

The  sound  of  a  latchkey  turned  in  the  lock  of  the  street 
door,  and  ANN  WELLWYN  enters,  a  girl  of  seventeen, 
with  hair  tied  in  a  ribbon  and  covered  by  a  scarf. 
Leaving  the  door  open,  she  turns  up  the  electric  light 
and  goes  to  the  fire.  She  throws  off  her  scarf  and 
long  red  cloak.  She  is  dressed  in  a  high  evening 
frock  of  some  soft  white  material.  Her  movements 
1 


2  THE  PIGEON  ACT  r 

are  quick  and  substantial.  Her  face,  full  of  no  non- 
sense, is  decided  and  sincere,  with  deep-set  eyes,  and 
a  capable,  well-shaped  forehead.  Shredding  off  her 
gloves  she  warms  her  hands* 

In  the  doorway  appear  the  figures  of  two  men.  The  first 
is  rather  short  and  slight,  with  a  soft  short  beard, 
bright  soft  eyes,  and  a  crumply  face.  Under  his 
squash  hat  his  hair  is  rather  plentiful  and  rather 
grey.  He  wears  an  old  brown  ulster  and  woollen 
gloves,  and  is  puffing  at  a  hand-made  cigarette.  He 
is  ANN'S  father,  WELLWYN,  the  artist.  His  com- 
panion is  a  well-wrapped  clergyman  of  medium 
height  and.  stoutish  build,  with  a  pleasant,  rosy  face, 
rather  shining  eyes,  and  rather  chubby  clean-shaped 
lips;  in  appearance,  indeed,  a  grown-up  boy.  He 
is  the  Vicar  of  the  parish — CANON  BERTLEY. 

BERTLEY.  My  dear  Wellwyn,  the  whole  question  of 
reform  is  full  of  difficulty.  When  you  have  two  men 
like  Professor  Calway  and  Sir  Thomas  Hoxton  taking 
diametrically  opposite  points  of  view,  as  we've  seen 
to-night,  I  confess,  I 

WELLWYN.  Come  in,  Vicar,  and  have  some  grog. 

BERTLEY.  Not  to-night,  thanks!  Christmas  to- 
morrow !  Great  temptation,  though,  this  room !  Good- 
night, Wellwyn;  good-night,  Ann! 

ANN.  [Coming  from  the  fire  towards  the  tea-table.} 
Good-night,  Canon  Bertley. 

[He  goes  out,  and  WELLWYN,  shutting  the  door 
after  him,  approaches  the  fire. 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  3 

ANN.  [Sitting  on  the  little  stool,  with  her  back  to  the 
fire,  and  making  tea.}  Daddy! 

WELLWYN.  My  dear? 

ANN.  You  say  you  liked  Professor  Calway's  lec- 
ture. Is  it  going  to  do  you  any  good,  that's  the 
question? 

WELLWYN.  I — I  hope  so,  Ann. 

ANN.  I  took  you  on  purpose.  Your  charity's  get- 
ting simply  awful.  Those  two  this  morning  cleared  out 
all  my  housekeeping  money. 

WELLWYN.  Um!  Um!  I  quite  understand  your 
feeling. 

ANN.  They  both  had  your  card,  so  I  couldn't  refuse 
— didn't  know  what  you'd  said  to  them.  Why  don't 
you  make  it  a  rule  never  to  give  your  card  to  anyone 
except  really  decent  people,  and — picture  dealers,  of 
course. 

WELLWYN.  My  dear,  I  have — often. 

ANN.  Then  why  don't  you  keep  it?  It's  a  frightful 
habit.  You  are  naughty,  Daddy.  One  of  these  days 
you'll  get  yourself  into  most  fearful  complications. 

WELLWYN.  My  dear,  when  they — when  they  look  at 
you? 

ANN.  You  know  the  house  wants  all  sorts  of  things. 
Why  do  you  speak  to  them  at  all? 

WELLWYN.  I  don't — they  speak  to  me. 

[He  takes  off  his  ulster  and  hangs  it  over  the  back 
of  an  arm-chair. 

ANN.  They  see  you  coming.  Anybody  can  see  you 
coming,  Daddy.  That's  why  you  ought  to  be  so 


4  THE  PIGEON  ACT  r 

careful.  I  shall  make  you  wear  a  hard  hat.  Those 
squashy  hats  of  yours  are  hopelessly  inefficient. 

WELLWYN.  [Oozing  at  his  hat.]  Calway  wears  one. 

ANN.  As  if  anyone  would  beg  of  Professor  Cal- 
way. 

WELLWYN.  Well — perhaps  not.  You  know,  Ann,  1 
admire  that  fellow.  Wonderful  power  of — of — theory ! 
How  a  man  can  be  so  absolutely  tidy  in  his  mind!  It's 
most  exciting. 

ANN.  Has  any  one  begged  of  you  to-day  ? 

WELLWYN.  [Doubtfully.}  No — no. 

ANN.  [After  a  long,  severe  look.]  Will  you  have  rum 
in  your  tea? 

WELLWYN.  [Crestfallen.]  Yes,  my  dear — a  good  deal. 

ANN.  [Pouring  out  the  rum,  and  handing  him  the  glass.] 
Well,  who  was  it? 

WELLWYN.  He  didn't  beg  of  me.  [Losing  himself  in 
recollection.]  Interesting  old  creature,  Ann — real  type. 
Old  cabman. 

ANN.  Where? 

WELLWYN.  Just  on  the  Embankment. 

ANN.  Of  course!  Daddy,  you  know  the  Embank* 
ment  ones  are  always  rotters. 

WELLWYN.  Yes,  my  dear;  but  this  wasn't. 

ANN.  Did  you  give  him  your  card? 

WELLWYN.  I — I — don't 

ANN.  Did  you,  Daddy? 

WELLWYN.  I'm  rather  afraid  I  may  have! 

ANN.  May  have!     It's  simply  immoral. 

WELLWYN.  Well,  the  old  fellow  was  so  awfully  hu« 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  5 

man,  Ann.    Besides,  I  didn't  give  him  any  money — 
hadn't  got  any. 

ANN.  Look  here,  Daddy!  Did  you  ever  ask  any- 
body for  anything?  You  know  you  never  did,  you'd 
starve  first.  So  would  anybody  decent.  Then,  why 
won't  you  see  that  people  who  beg  are  rotters? 

WELLWYN.  But,  my  dear,  we're  not  all  the  same.  They 
wouldn't  do  it  if  it  wasn't  natural  to  them.  One  likes  to 
be  friendly.  What's  the  use  of  being  alive  if  one  isn't? 

ANN.  Daddy,  you're  hopeless. 

WELLWYN.  But,  look  here,  Ann,  the  whole  thing's  so 
jolly  complicated.  According  to  Calway,  we're  to  give 
the  State  all  we  can  spare,  to  make  the  undeserving 
deserving.  He's  a  Professor;  he  ought  to  know.  But 
old  Hoxton's  always  dinning  it  into  me  that  we  ought 
to  support  private  organisations  for  helping  the  deserv- 
ing, and  damn  the  undeserving.  Well,  that's  just  the 
opposite.  And  he's  a  J.P.  Tremendous  experience. 
And  the  Vicar  seems  to  be  for  a  little  bit  of  both.  Well, 
what  the  devil — ?  My  trouble  is,  whichever  I'm  with, 
he  always  converts  me.  [Ruefully.]  And  there's  no  fun 
in  any  of  them. 

ANN.  [Rising.]  Oh!  Daddy,  you  are  so — don't  you 
know  that  you're  the  despair  of  all  social  reformers? 
[She  envelops  him.]  There's  a  tear  in  the  left  knee  of 
your  trousers.  You're  not  to  wear  them  again. 

WELLWYN.  Am  I  likely  to? 

ANN.  I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  it  isn't  your 
only  pair.     D'you  know  what  I  live  in  terror  of? 
[WELLWYN  gives  her  a  queer  and  apprehensive  look. 


6  THE   PIGEON  ACT  i 

ANN.  That  you'll  take  them  off  some  day,  and  give 
them  away  in  the  street.  Have  you  got  any  money? 
[She  feels  in  his  coat,  and  he  is  his  trousers — they  find 
nothing.}  Do  you  know  that  your  pockets  are  one  enor- 
mous hole? 

WELLWYN.  No! 

ANN.  Spiritually. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!    Ah!    H'm! 

ANN.  [Severely.]  Now,  look  here,  Daddy!  [She  takes 
him  by  his  lappels.]  Don't  imagine  that  it  isn't  the  most 
disgusting  luxury  on  your  part  to  go  on  giving  away 
things  as  you  do!  You  know  what  you  really  are,  I 
suppose — a  sickly  sentimentalist! 

WELLWYN.  [Breaking  away  from  her,  disturbed.]  It 
isn't  sentiment.  It's  simply  that  they  seem  to  me 
so — so — jolly.  If  I'm  to  give  up  feeling  sort  of 
— nice  in  here  [he  touches  his  chest]  about  people — it 
doesn't  matter  who  they  are — then  I  don't  know 
what  I'm  to  do.  I  shall  have  to  sit  with  my  head 
in  a  bag. 

ANN.  I  think  you  ought  to. 

WELLWYN.  I  suppose  they  see  I  like  them — then 
they  tell  me  things.  After  that,  of  course  you  can't 
help  doing  what  you  can. 

ANN.  Well,  if  you  witt  love  them  up! 

WELLWYN.  My  dear,  I  don't  want  to.  It  isn't  them 
especially — why,  I  feel  it  even  with  old  Calway  some- 
times. It's  only  Providence  that  he  doesn't  want  any- 
thing of  me — except  to  make  me  like  himself — con- 
found him! 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  7 

ANN.  [Moving  towards  the  door  into  the  house — im- 
pressively.] What  you  don't  see  is  that  other  people 
aren't  a  bit  like  you. 

WELLWYN.  Well,  thank  God! 

ANN.  It's  so  old-fashioned  too!     I'm  going  to  bed — 
I  just  leave  you  to  your  conscience. 
WELLWYN.  Oh! 

ANN.  [Opening  the  door — severely.]  Good-night — 
[with  a  certain  weakening]  you  old — Daddy! 

[She  jumps  at  him,  gives  him  a  hug,  and  goes  out. 

[WELLWYN  stands  perfectly  still.     He  first  gazes 

up  at  the  skylight,  then  down  at  the  floor.    Slowly 

he  begins  to  shake  his  head,  and  mutter,  as  he 

moves  towards  the  fire. 

WELLWYN.  Bad  lot.  .  .  .  Low  type — no  backbone, 
no  stability! 

[There  comes  a  fluttering  knock  on  the  outer  door. 
As  the  sound  slowly  enters  his  consciousness,  he 
begins  to  wince,  as  though  he  knew,  but  would 
not  admit  its  significance.  Then  he  sits  down, 
covering  his  ears.  The  knocking  does  not  cease. 
WELLWYN  drops  first  one,  then  both  hands,  rises, 
and  begins  to  sidle  towards  the  door.  The  knock- 
ing becomes  louder. 
WELLWYN.  Ah  dear!  Tt!  Tt!  Tt! 

[After  a  look  in  the  direction  of  ANN'S  disap* 
pearance,  he  opens  the  street  door  a  very  little  way. 
By  the  light  of  the  lamp  there  can  be  seen  a  young 
girl  in  dark  clothes,  huddled  in  a  shawl  to  which 


8  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

the  snow  is  clinging.     She  has  on  her  arm  a  bas- 
ket covered  with  a  bit  of  sacking. 
WELLWYN.  I  can't,  you  know;  it's  impossible. 

[The  girl  says  nothing,  but  looks  at  him  with  dark 

eyes. 

WELLWYN.  [Wincing.}  Let's  see — I  don't  know  you 
-do  I? 

[The  girl,  speaking  in  a  soft,  hoarse  voice,  with  a 
faint  accent  of  reproach:  "Mrs.  Megan — you 
give  me  this — "  She  holds  out  a  dirty  visiting 
card. 

WELLWYN.  [Recoiling  from  the  card.]  Oh!  Did  I? 
Ah!  When? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  You  'ad  some  vi'lets  off  of  me  larst 
spring.  You  give  me  'arf  a  crown. 

[A  smile  tries  to  visit  her  face. 

WELLWYN.  [Looking  stealthily  round.]  Ah!  Well, 
come  in — just  for  a  minute — it's  very  cold — and  tell  us 
what  it  is. 

[She  comes  in  stolidly,  a  sphinx-like  figure,  with 

her  pretty  tragic  little  face. 

WELLWYN.  I  don't  remember  you.  [Looking  closer.] 
Yes,  /  do.     Only — you  weren't  the  same — were  you? 
MRS.  MEGAN.  [Dully.]  I  seen  trouble  since. 
WELLWYN.  Trouble!    Have  some  tea? 

[He  looks  anxiously  at  the  door  into  the  house,  llien 
goes  quickly  to  the  table,  and  pours  out  a  glass  of 
tea,  putting  rum  into  it. 

WELLWYN.  [Handing  her  the  tea.]  Keeps  the  cold  out! 
Drink  it  off! 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  9 

[Mas.  MEGAN  drinks  it  off,  chokes  a  little,  and 
almost  immediately  seems  to  get  a  size  larger. 
WELLWYN  watches  her  with  his  head  held  on 
one  side,  and  a  smile  broadening  on  his  face. 

WELLWYN.  Cure  for  all  evils,  um? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  It  warms  you.  [Slie  smiles. 

WELLWYN.  [Smiling  back,  and  catching  himself  out.] 
Well!    You  know,  I  oughtn't. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Conscious  of  the  disruption  of  his  per- 
sonality, and  withdrawing  into  her  tragic  abyss.}  I 
wouldn't  'a  come,  but  you  told  me  if  I  wanted  an 
'and 

WELLWYN.  [Gradually  losing  himself  in  his  own  na- 
ture.} Let  me  see — corner  of  Flight  Street,  wasn't  it? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [With  faint  eagerness.}  Yes,  sir,  an' 
I  told  you  about  me  vi'lets — it  was  a  luvly  spring 
day. 

WELLWYN.  Beautiful!  Beautiful!  Birds  singing, 
and  the  trees,  &c.!  We  had  quite  a  talk.  You  had  a 
baby  with  you. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes.     I  got  married  since  then. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!  Ah!  Yes!  [Cheerfully.}  And  how's 
the  baby? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Turning  to  stone.}  I  lost  her. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!  poor —    Um! 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Impassive.}  You  said  something 
abaht  makin'  a  picture  of  me.  [With  faint  eagerness.] 
So  I  thought  I  might  come,  in  case  you'd  forgotten. 

WELLWYN.  [Looking  at  her  intently.]  Things  going 
badly? 


10  THE   PIGEON  ACT  i 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Stripping  the  sacking  off  her  basket.] 
I  keep  'em  covered  up,  but  the  cold  gets  to  'em. 
Thruppence — that's  all  I've  took. 

WELLWYN.  Ho!  Tt!  Tt!  [He  looks  into  the  basket.] 
Christmas,  too! 

MRS.  MEGAN.  They're  dead. 

WELLWTN.  [Drawing  in  his  breath.]  Got  a  good  hus- 
band? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  He  plays  cards, 
WELLWYN.  Oh,  Lord!    And  what  are  you  doing  out 
— with  a  cold  like  that?  [He  taps  his  chest. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  We  was  sold  up  this  morning — he's 
gone  off  with  'is  mates.  Haven't  took  enough  yet  for 
a  night's  lodgin'. 

WELLWYN.  [Correcting  a  spasmodic  dive  into  his 
pockets.]  But  who  buys  flowers  at  this  time  of  night? 

[MRS.  MEGAN  looks  at  him,  and  faintly  smiles. 
WELLWYN.  [Rumpling   his   hair.]  Saints  above  us! 
Here!    Come  to  the  fire! 

[She  follows  him  to  the  fire.     He  shuts  the  street 

door. 

WELLWYN.  Are  your  feet  wet?  [She  nods.]  Well,  sit 
down  here,  and  take  them  off.  That's  right. 

[She  sits  on  the  stool.  And  after  a  slow  look  up  at 
him,  which  has  in  it  a  deeper  knowledge  than 
belongs  of  right  to  her  years,  begins  taking  off 
her  shoes  and  stockings.  WELLWYN  goes  to  the 
door  into  the  house,  opens  it,  and  listens  with  a 
sort  of  stealthy  casualness.  He  returns  whis- 
tling, but  not  out  loud.  The  girl  has  finished  tak- 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  11 

ing  off  her  stockings,  and  turned  her  bare  toes 
to  the  flames.  She  shuffles  them  back  under  her 
skirt. 

WELLWYN.  How  old  are  you,  my  child? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Nineteen,  come  Candlemas. 

WELLWYN.  And  what's  your  name? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Guinevere. 

WELLWYN.  What?    Welsh? 

Mrs.  MEGAN.  Yes — from  Battersea. 

WELLWYN.  And  your  husband? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  No.  Irish,  'e  is.  Netting  Dale,  'e 
comes  from. 

WELLWYN.  Roman  Catholic? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes.  My  'usband's  an  atheist  as 
well. 

WELLWYN.  I  see.  [Abstractedly.]  How  jolly!  And 
how  old  is  he — this  young  man  of  yours? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  'E'll  be  twenty  soon. 

WELLWYN.  Babes  in  the  wood!  Does  he  treat  you 
badly? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  No. 

WELLWYN.  Nor  drink? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  No.  He's  not  a  bad  one.  Only  he 
gets  pi  ay  in'  cards — then  'e'll  fly  the  kite. 

WELLWYN.  I  see.  And  when  he's  not  flying  it,  what 
does  he  do? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Touching  her  basket.]  Same  as  me. 
Other  jobs  tires  'im. 

WELLWYN.  That's  very  nice!  [He  checks  himself.] 
Well,  what  am  I  to  do  with  you? 


12  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Of  course,  I  could  get  me  night's 
lodging  if  I  like  to  do — the  same  as  some  of  them. 
WELLWYN.  No!  no!    Never,  my  child!    Never! 
MRS.  MEGAN.  It's  easy  that  way. 
WELLWYN.  Heavens!    But  your  husband !     Um? 
Mas.  MEGAN.  [With  stoical  vindictiveness.]  He's  after 
one  I  know  of. 

WELLWYN.  Tt!    What  a  pickle! 
MRS.  MEGAN.  I'll  'ave  to  walk  about  the  streets. 
WELLWYN.  [To  himself.]  Now  how  can  I? 

[MRS.  MEGAN  looks  up  and  smiles  at  him,  as  if 

she  had  already  discovered  that  he  is  peculiar. 
WELLWYN.  You  see,  the  fact  is,  I  mustn't  give  you 
anything — because — well,  for  one  thing  I  haven't  got 
it.  There  are  other  reasons,  but  that's  the — real  one. 
But,  now,  there's  a  little  room  where  my  models  dress. 
I  wonder  if  you  could  sleep  there.  Come,  and  see. 

[The  Girl  gets  up  lingeringly,  loth  to  leave  the 

warmth.     She  takes  up  her  wet  stockings. 
MRS.  MEGAN.  Shall  I  put  them  on  again? 
WELLWYN.  No,  no;    there's  a  nice  warm  pair  of 
slippers.  [Seeing  the  steam  rising  from  her.]  Why,  you're 
wet  all  over.    Here,  wait  a  little! 

[He  crosses  to  the  door  into  the  house,  and  after 
stealthy  listening,  steps  through.     The  Girl,  like 
a  cat,  steals  back  to  the  warmth  of  the  fire. 
WELLWYN  returns  with  a  candle,  a  canary- 
coloured  bath  gown,  and  two  blankets. 
WELLWYN.  Now  then!  [He  precedes  her  towards  the 
door  of  the  model's  room.]  Hsssh !  [He  opens  the  door  and 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  IS 

holds  up  the  candle  to  show  her  the  room.]  Will  it  do? 
There's  a  couch.  You'll  find  some  washing  things. 
Make  yourself  quite  at  home.  See! 

[The  Girl,  perfectly  dumb,  passes  through  with  her 
basket — and  her  shoes  and  stockings.  WELLWYN 
hands  her  the  candle,  blankets,  and  bath  gown. 
WELLWYN.  Have  a  good  sleep,  child!    Forget  that 
you're  alive!  [He  closes  the  door,  mournfully.]  Done  it 
again!  [He  goes  to  the  table,  cuts  a  large  slice  of  cake, 
knocks   on   the   door,   and   hands   it   in.]  Chow-chow! 
[Then,  -as  he  walks  away,  he  sights  the  opposite  door.] 
Well — damn  it,  what  could  I  have  done?     Not  a  far- 
thing on  me!  [He  goes  to  the  street  door  to  shut  it,  butjirst 
opens  it  wide  to  confirm  himself  in  his  hospitality.]   Night 
Uke  this! 

[A  sputter  of  snow  is  blown  in  his  face.  A  voice 
says:  "Monsieur,  pardon!"  WELLWYN  re- 
coils spasmodically.  A  figure  moves  from  the 
lamp-post  to  the  doorway.  He  is  seen  to  be 
young  and  to  have  ragged  clothes.  He  speaks 
again:  "You  do  not  remember  me,  Monsieur? 
My  name  is  Ferrand — it  was  in  Paris,  hi 
the  Champs-Elysees — by  the  fountain.  .  .  . 
When  you  came  to  the  door,  Monsieur — I  am 
not  made  of  iron.  .  .  .  Tenez,  here  is  your 
card — I  have  never  lost  it."  He  holds  out  to 
WELLWYN  an  old  and  dirty  visiting  card.  As 
inch  by  inch  he  has  advanced  into  the  doorway, 
the  light  from  within  falls  on  him,  a  tall  gaunt 
young  pagan  with  fair  hair  and  reddish  golden 


14  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

stubble  of  beard,  a  long  ironical  nose  a  little  to  one 
side,  and  large,  grey,  rather  prominent  eyes, 
There  is  a  certain  grace  in  his  figure  and  move- 
ments; his  clothes  are  nearly  dropping  off  him. 

WELLWYN.  [Yielding  to  a  pleasant  memory.]  Ah  lyes. 
By  the  fountain.  I  was  sitting  there,  and  you  came 
and  ate  a  roll,  and  drank  the  water. 

FERRAND.  [With  faint  eagerness.]  My  breakfast.  I 
was  in  poverty — veree  bad  off.  You  gave  me  ten  francs. 
I  thought  I  had  a  little  the  right  [WELLWYN  makes  a 
movement  of  disconcertion],  seeing  you  said  that  if  I  came 
to  England 

WELLWYN.  Um!    And  so  you've  come? 

FERRAND.  It  was  time  that  I  consolidated  my  for- 
tunes, Monsieur. 

WELLWYN.  And  you — have 

[He  stops  embarrassed. 

FERRAND.  [Shrugging  his  ragged  shoulders.]  One  is 
not  yet  Rothschild. 

WELLWYN.  [Sympathetically.}  No.  [Yielding  to  mem- 
ory.] We  talked  philosophy. 

FERRAND.  I  have  not  yet  changed  my  opinion.  We 
other  vagabonds,  we  are  exploited  by  the  bourgeois. 
This  is  always  my  idea,  Monsieur. 

WELLWYN.  Yes — not  quite  the  general  view,  per- 
haps! Well —  [Heartily.]  Come  in!  Very  glad  to  see 
you  again. 

FERRAND.  [Brushing  his  arms  over  his  eyes.]  Pardon, 
Monsieur — your  goodness — I  am  a  little  weak.  [He 
opens  his  coat,  and  shows  a  belt  drawn  very  tight  over  his 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  15 

ragged  skirt.]    I  tighten  him  one  hole  for  each  meal, 
during  two  days  now.     That  gives  you  courage. 

WELLWYN.  [With  cooing  sounds,  pouring  out  tea,  and 

adding  rum.]  Have  some  of  this.     It'll  buck  you  up. 

[He  watches  the  young  man  drink. 

FERRAND.  [Becoming  a  size  larger.]  Sometimes  I 
think  that  I  will  never  succeed  to  dominate  my  life, 
Monsieur — though  I  have  no  vices,  except  that  I  guard 
always  the  aspiration  to  achieve  success.  But  I  will 
not  roll  myself  under  the  machine  of  existence  to  gain  a 
nothing  every  day.  I  must  find  with  what  to  fly  a  little. 

WELLWYN.  [Delicately.]  Yes;  yes — I  remember,  you 
found  it  difficult  to  stay  long  in  any  particular — yes. 

FERRAND.  [Proudly.]  In  one  little  corner?  No — 
Monsieur — never!  That  is  not  in  my  character.  I 
must  see  life. 

WELLWYN.  Quite,  quite!    Have  some  cake? 

[He  cuts  cake. 

FERRAND.  In  your  country  they  say  you  cannot  eat 
the  cake  and  have  it.  But  one  must  always  try,  Mon- 
sieur; one  must  never  be  content.  [Refusing  the  cake.] 
Grand  merci,  but  for  the  moment  I  have  no  stomach — 
I  have  lost  my  stomach  now  for  two  days.  If  I  could 
smoke,  Monsieur!  [He  makes  the  gesture  of  smoking. 

WELLWYN.  Rather!  [Handing  his  tobacco  pouch.] 
Roll  yourself  one. 

FERRAND.  [Rapidly  rolling  a  cigarette.]  If  I  had  not 
found  you,  Monsieur — I  would  have  been  a  little  hole 
in  the  river  to-night — I  was  so  discouraged.  [He  inhales 
and  puffs  a  long  luxurious  whiff  of  smoke.  Very  bitterly.} 


16  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

Life!  [He  disperses  the  puff  of  smoke  with  his  finger,  and 
stares  before  him.]  And  to  think  that  in  a  few  minutes 
HE  will  be  born !  Monsieur !  [He  gazes  intently  at  WELL- 
WTN.]  The  world  would  reproach  you  for  your  goodness 
to  me. 

WELLWTN.  [Looking  uneasily  at  the  door  into  the 
house.]    You  think  so?     Ah! 

FERBAND.  Monsieur,  if  HE  himself  were  on  earth 
now,  there  would  be  a  little  heap  of  gentlemen  writing 
to  the  journals  every  day  to  call  Him  sloppee  senti- 
mentalist! And  what  is  veree  funny,  these  gentlemen 
they  would  all  be  most  strong  Christians.  [He  regards 
WELLWYN  deeply.]  But  that  will  not  trouble  you, 
Monsieur;  I  saw  well  from  the  first  that  you  are  no 
Christian.  You  have  so  kind  a  face. 
WELLWTN.  Oh!  Indeed! 

FERRAND.  You  have  not  enough  the  Pharisee  in  your 
character.    You  do  not  judge,  and  you  are  judged. 

[He  stretches  his  limbs  as  if  in  pain. 
WELLWYN.  Are  you  in  pain? 
FERRAND.  I  'ave  a  little  the  rheumatism 
WELLWTN.  Wet  through,  of  course!  [Glancing  tow- 
ards the  house.]  Wait  a  bit!    I  wonder  if  you'd  like 

these  trousers;  they've — er — they're  not  quite 

[He  passes  through  the  door  into  the  house.  FER- 
RAND stands  at  the  fire,  with  his  limbs  spread  as 
it  were  to  embrace  it,  smoking  with  abandonment. 
WELLWTN  returns  stealthily,  dressed  in  a  Jaeger 
dressing-gown,  and  bearing  a  pair  of  drawers, 
his  trousers,  a  pair  of  slippers,  and  a  sweater. 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  17 

WELLWYN-.  [Speaking  in  a  low  voice,  for  the  door  is  stitt 
open.}  Can  you  make  these  do  for  the  moment? 

FERBAND.  Je  vous  remercie,  Monsieur.  [Pointing  to 
the  screen.]  May  I  retire? 
WELLWYN.  Yes,  yes. 

[FERRAND  goes  behind  the  screen.    WELLWYN 
closes  the  door  into  the  house,  then  goes  to  the  win- 
dow to  draw  the  curtains.     He  suddenly  recoils 
and  stands  petrified  with  doubt. 
WELLWYN.  Good  Lord! 

[There  is  the  sound  of  tapping  on  glass.    Against 
the  window-pane  is  pressed  the  face  of  a  man. 
WELLWYN  motions  to  him  to  go  away.    He  does 
not  go,  but  continues  tapping.    WELLWYN  opens 
the  door.     There  enters  a  square  old  man,  with  a 
red,  pendulous-jawed,  shaking  face  under  a  snow 
besprinkled  bowler  hat.     He  is  holding  out  a 
visiting  card  with  tremulous  hand. 
WELLWYN.  Who's  that?    Who  are  you? 
TIMSON.  [In  a  thick,  hoarse,  shaking  voice.]  'Appy  to 
see  you,  sir;  we  'ad  a  talk  this  morning.    Timson — I 
give  you  me  name.    You  invited  of  me,  if  ye  remember. 
WELLWYN.  It's  a  little  late,  really. 
TIMSON.  Well,  ye  see,  I  never  expected  to  'ave  to 
call  on  yer.    I  was  'itched  up  all  right  when  I  spoke  to 
yer  this  mornin',  but  bein'  Christmas,  things  'ave  took 
a  turn  with  me  to-day.  [He  speaks  with  increasing  thick- 
ness.] I'm  reg'lar  disgusted — not  got  the  price  of  a  bed 
abaht  me.    Thought  you  wouldn't  like  me  to  be  deli- 
cate— not  at  my  age. 


18  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

WEL.LWTN.  [With  a  mechanical  and  distracted  dive  of 
his  hands  into  his  pockets.]  The  fact  is,  it  so  happens  I 
haven't  a  copper  on  me. 

TEMSON.  [Evidently  taking  this  for  professional  re- 
fusal.] Wouldn't  arsk  you  if  I  could  'elp  it.  'Ad  to  do 
with  'orses  all  me  life.  It's  this  'ere  cold  I'm  frightened 
of.  I'm  afraid  I'll  go  to  sleep. 

WELLWYN.  Well,  really,  I 

TIMSON.  To  be  froze  to  death — I  mean — it's  awk- 
ward. 

WELLWYN.  [Puzzled  and  unhappy.]  Well — come  in 
a  moment,  and  let's — think  it  out.    Have  some  tea! 
[He  pours  out  the  remains  of  the  tea,  and  finding 
there  is  not  very  much,  adds  rum  rather  liber- 
ally.    TIMSON,  who  walks  a  little  wide  at  the 
knees,  steadying  his  gait,  has  followed. 
TEMSON.  [Receiving  the  drink.]  Yer  'ealth.     'Ere's — 
soberiety!  [He  applies  the  drink  to  his  lips  with  shaking 
hand.    Agreeably  surprised.]  Blimey!    Thish  yer  tea's 
foreign,  ain't  it? 

FERRAND.  [Reappearing  from  behind  the  screen  in  his 
new  clothes  of  which  the  trousers  stop  too  soon.]  With  a 
needle,  Monsieur,  I  would  soon  have  with  what  to  make 
face  against  the  world. 
WELLWTN.  Too  short!    Ah! 

[He  goes  to  the  dais  on  which  stands  ANN'S  work- 
basket,  and  takes  from  it  a  needle  and  cotton. 
[While  he  is  so  engaged  FERRAND  is  sizing  up  old 
TIMSON,  as  one  dog  will  another.     The  old  man, 
glass  in  hand,  seems  to  have  lapsed  into  coma. 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  19 

FERRAND.  [Indicating  TIMSON.]  Monsieur! 

[He  makes  the  gesture  of  one  drinking,  and  shakes 
his  head. 

WELLWYN.  [Handing  him  the  needle  and  cotton.]  Um! 
Afraid  so! 

[Tliey  approach  TIMSON,  who  takes  no  notice. 

FERRAND.  [Gently.}  It  is  an  old  cabby,  is  it  not,  Mon- 
sieur? Ceux  sont  tous  des  buveurs. 

WELLWYN.  [Concerned  at  the  old  man's  stupefaction.} 
Now,  my  old  friend,  sit  down  a  moment.  [They  ma- 
noeuvre TIMSON  to  the  settle.]  Will  you  smoke? 

TIMSON.  [In  a  drowsy  voice.]  Thank  'ee — smoke  pipe 
of  'baccer.  Old  'orse — standin*  abaht  in  th*  cold. 

[He  relapses  into  coma. 

FERRAND.  [With  a  click  of  his  tongue.]  II  est  parti. 

WELLWYN.  [Doubtfully.]  He  hasn't  really  left  a 
horse  outside,  do  you  think? 

FERRAND.  Non,  non,  Monsieur — no  'orse.  He  is 
dreaming.  I  know  very  well  that  state  of  him — that 
catches  you  sometimes.  It  is  the  warmth  sudden  on 
the  stomach.  He  will  speak  no  more  sense  to-night. 
At  the  most,  drink,  and  fly  a  little  in  his  past, 

WELLWYN.  Poor  old  buffer! 

FERRAND.  Touching,  is  it  not,  Monsieur?  There  are 
many  brave  gents  among  the  old  cabbies — they  have 
philosophy — that  comes  from  'orses,  and  from  sitting 
still. 

WELLWYN.  [Touching TIMSON'S shoulder.]  Drenched! 

FERRAND.  That  will  do  'im  no  'arm,  Monsieur — no 
'arm  at  all.  He  is  well  wet  inside,  remember — it  is 


20  THE   PIGEON  ACT  i 

Christinas  to-morrow.    Put  him  a  rug,  if  you  will,  he 
will  soon  steam. 

[WELLWYN  takes  up  ANN'S  long  red  cloak,  and 
wraps  it  round  the  old  man. 

TIMSON.  [Faintly  roused.]  Tha's  right.  Put — the 
rug  on  th'  old  'orse. 

[He  makes  a  strange  noise,  and  works  his  head  and 
tongue. 

WELLWYN.  [Alarmed.]  What's  the  matter  with  him? 

FEKBAND.  It  is  nothing,  Monsieur;  for  the  moment 
he  thinks  'imself  a  'orse.  II  joue  "cache-cache,"  'ide 
and  seek,  with  what  you  call — 'is  bitt. 

WELLWYN.  But  what's  to  be  done  with  him?  One 
can't  turn  him  out  in  this  state. 

FERRAND.  If  you  wish  to  leave  him  'ere,  Monsieur, 
have  no  fear.  I  charge  myself  with  him. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!  [Dubiously.]  You — er — I  really  don't 
know,  I — hadn't  contemplated — You  think  you  could 
manage  if  I — if  I  went  to  bed? 

FERRAND.  But  certainly,  Monsieur. 

WELLWYN.  [Still  dubiously.]  You — you're  sure  you've 
everything  you  want? 

FERRAND.  [Bowing.]  Mais  oui,  Monsieur. 

WELLWYN.  I  don't  know  what  I  can  do  by  staying. 

FERRAND.  There  is  nothing  you  can  do,  Monsieur. 
Have  confidence  in  me. 

WELLWYN.  Well — keep  the  fire  up  quietly — very 
quietly.  You'd  better  take  this  coat  of  mine,  too. 
You'll  find  it  precious  cold,  I  expect,  about  three 
o'clock.  [He  hands  FERRAND  his  ulster. 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  21 

FERRAND.  [Taking  it.]  I  shall  sleep  in  praying  for 
you,  Monsieur. 

WELLWYN.  Ah!  Yes!  Thanks!  Well— good-night! 
By  the  way,  I  shall  be  down  rather  early.  Have  to 
think  of  my  household  a  bit,  you  know. 

FERRAND.  Tr&s  bien,  Monsieur.  I  comprehend. 
One  must  well  be  regular  in  this  life. 

WELLWYN.  [With   a  start.]  Lord!  [He  looks  at  the 

door  of  the  model's  room.]  I'd  forgotten 

FERRAND.  Can  I  undertake  anything,  Monsieur? 
WELLWYN.  No,  no!  [He  goes  to  the  electric  light  switch 
by  the  outer  door.]  You  won't  want  this,  will  you? 
FERRAND.  Merci,  Monsieur. 

[WELLWYN  switches  off  the  light. 
FERRAND.  Bon  soir,  Monsieur! 
WELLWYN.  The  devil!    Er — good-night! 

[He  hesitates,  rumples  his  hair,  and  passes  rather 

suddenly  away. 

FERRAND.  [To  himself.]  Poor  pigeon!  [Looking  long 
at  old  TIMSON.]  Espdce  de  type  anglais! 

[He  sits  down  in  the  firelight,  curls  up  afoot  on  his 
knee,  and  taking  out  a  knife,  rips  the  stitching 
of  a  turned-up  end  of  trouser,  pinches  the  cloth 
double,  and  puts  in  the  preliminary  stitch  of  a 
new  hem — all  with  the  swiftness  of  one  well-ac- 
customed. Then,  as  if  hearing  a  sound  behind 
him,  he  gets  up  quickly  and  slips  behind  the 
screen.  MRS.  MEGAN,  attracted  by  the  cessation 
of  voices,  has  opened  the  door,  and  is  creeping 
from  the  model's  room  towards  the  fire.  She  ha» 


22  THE  PIGEON  ACT  t 

almost  reached  it  before  she  takes  in  the  torpid 
crimson  figure  of  old  TIMSON.  She  halts  and 
puts  her  hand  to  her  chest — a  queer  figure  in  the 
firelight,  garbed  in  the  canary-coloured  bath 
gown  and  rabbit' s-wool  slippers,  her  black  matted 
hair  straggling  down  on  her  neck.  Having  quite 
digested  the  fact  that  the  old  man  is  in  a  sort  of 
stupor,  MRS.  MEGAN  goes  close  to  the  fire,  and 
sits  on  the  little  stool,  smiling  sideways  at  old 
TIMSON.  FERRAND,  coming  quietly  up  behind, 
examines  her  from  above,  drooping  his  long  nose 
as  if  enquiring  with  it  as  to  her  condition  in 
life;  then  he  steps  back  a  yard  or  two. 

FERRAND.  [Gently.]  Pardon,  Ma'moiselle. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Springing  to  her  feet.]  Oh! 

FERRAND.  All  right,  all  right!    We  are  brave  gents! 

TIMSON.  [Faintly  roused.]  'Old  up,  there! 

FERRAND.  Trust  in  me,  Ma'moiselle! 

[MRS.  MEGAN  responds  by  drawing  away. 

FERRAND.  [Gently.]  We    must    be    good    comrades. 
This  asylum — it  is  better  than  a  doss-'ouse. 

[He  pushes  the  stool  over  towards  her,  and  seats 
himself.  Somewhat  reassured,  MRS.  MEGAN 
again  sits  down. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  You  frightened  me. 

TIMSON.  [Unexpectedly — in  a  drowsy  tone.]  Purple 
foreigners! 

FERRAND.  Pay  no  attention,  Ma'moiselle.    He  fr  a 
philosopher. 


*cr  i  THE   PIGEON  23 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Oh!    I  thought  'e  was  boozed. 

[They  both  look  at  TIMSON. 

FERHAND.  It  is  the  same — veree  'armless. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  What's  that  he's  got  on  'im? 

FERRAND.  It  is  a  coronation  robe.  Have  no  fear, 
Ma'moiselle.  Veree  docile  potentate. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I  wouldn't  be  afraid  of  him.  [Chal- 
lenging FERRAND.]  I'm  afraid  o'  you. 

FERRAND.  It  is  because  you  do  not  know  me,  Ma'- 
moiselle. You  are  wrong,  it  is  always  the  unknown 
you  should  love. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I  don't  like  the  way  you — speaks  to 
me. 

FERRAND.  Ah!    You  are  a  Princess  in  disguise? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  No  fear! 

FERRAND.  No?  What  is  it  then  you  do  to  make 
face  against  the  necessities  of  life?  A  living? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Sells  flowers. 

FERRAND.  [Rolling  his  eyes.]  It  is  not  a  career. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [With  a  touch  of  devilry.]  You  don't 
know  what  I  do. 

FERRAND.  Ma'moiselle,  whatever  you  do  :s  char- 
ming. 

[MRS.  MEGAN  looks  at  him.  and  slowly  smiles. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  You're  a  foreigner. 

FERRAND.  It  is  true. 
,      MRS.  MEGAN.  What  do  you  do  for  a  livin'? 

FERRAND.  I  am  an  interpreter. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  You  ain't  very  busy,  are  you? 

FERHAND.  [With  dignity.]  At  present  I  am  resting. 


24  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Looking  at  him  and  smiling,]  How 
did  you  and  'im  come  here? 

FERBAND.  Ma'moiselle,  we  would  ask  you  the  same 
question. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  The  gentleman  let  me.     'E's  funny. 

FERRAND.  C'est  un  angel  [At  MRS.  MEGAN'S  blank 
stare  he  interprets.]  An  angel! 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Me  luck's  out — that's  why  I  come. 

FERRAND.  [Rising.]  Ah!  Ma'moiselle!  Luck!  There 
is  the  little  God  who  dominates  us  all.  Look  at  this 
old!  [He  points  to  TIMSON.]  He  is  finished.  In  his 
day  that  old  would  be  doing  good  business.  He  could 
afford  himself —  [He  makes  a  sign  of  drinking.]  Then 
come  the  motor  cars.  All  goes — he  has  nothing  left, 
only  'is  'abits  of  a  cocher!  Luck! 

TIMSON.  [With  a  vague  gesture — drowsily.]  Kick  the 
foreign  beggars  out. 

FERRAND.  A  real  Englishman.  .  .  .  And  look  at  me1 
My  father  was  merchant  of  ostrich  feathers  in  Brussels. 
If  I  had  been  content  to  go  in  his  business,  I  would  'ave 
been  rich.  But  I  was  born  to  roll — "rolling  stone" — 
to  voyage  is  stronger  than  myself.  Luck!  .  .  .  And 
you,  Ma'moiselle,  shall  I  tell  your  fortune?  [He  looks 
in  her  face.]  You  were  born  for  lajoie  de  vivre — to  drink 
the  wines  of  life.  Et  vous  voilal  Luck! 

[Though  she  does  not  in  the  least  understand  what  he 
has  said,  her  expression  changes  to  a  sort  of  glee. 

FERRAND.  Yes.  You  were  born  loving  pleasure.  Is 
it  not?  You  see,  you  cannot  say,  No.  All  of  us,  we 
have  our  fates.  Give  me  your  hand.  [He  kneels  down 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  25 

and  takes  her  hand}  In  each  of  us  there  is  that  against 
which  we  cannot  struggle.    Yes,  yes! 

[He  holds  her  hand,  and  turns  it  over  between  his 
own.  MBS.  MEGAN  remains  stolid,  half -fasci- 
nated, half-reluctant. 

TIMSON.  [Flickering  into  consciousness.]  Be'ave  your- 
selves !     Yer  crimson  canary  birds ! 

[MRS.  MEGAN  would  withdraw  her  hand,  but  cannot. 
FERBAND.  Pay  no  attention,  Ma'moiselle.    He  is  a 
Puritan. 

[TIMSON  relapses  into  comatosity,  upsetting  his 

glass,  which  falls  with  a  crash. 
MRS.  MEGAN.  Let  go  my  hand,  please! 
FEBBAND.  [Relinquishing  it,  and  staring  into  the  fire 
gravely.]  There  is  one  thing  I  have  never  done — 'urt  a 
woman — that  is  hardly  in  my  character.  [Then,  draw- 
ing a  little  closer,  he  looks  into  her  face.]  Tell  me,  Ma'- 
moiselle, what  is  it  you  think  of  all  day  long? 
MBS.  MEGAN.  I  dunno — lots,  I  thinks  of. 
FEBRAND.  Shall  I  tell  you?  [Her  eyes  remain  fixed 
on  his,  the  strangeness  of  him  preventing  her  from  telling 
him  to  "get  along."    He  goes  on  in  his  ironic  voice.]  It 
is  of  the  streets — the  lights — the  faces — it  is  of  all  which 
moves,  and  is  warm — it  is  of  colour — it  is  [he  brings  his 
face  quite  close  to  hers]  of  Love.    That  is  for  you  what 
the  road  is  for  me.    That  is  for  you  what  the  rum  is  for 
that  old —    [He  jerks  his  thumb  back  at  TIMSON.     Then 
bending  swiftly  forward  to  the  girl.]  See!  I  kiss  you — Ah! 
[He  draws  her  forward  off  the  stool.     There  is  a 
little  struggle,  then  she  resigns  her  lips.     The 


26  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

little  stool,  overturned,  falls  with  a  clatter.     They 
spring  up,  and  move  apart.     The  door  opens  and 
ANN  enters  from  the  house  in  a  blue  dressing- 
gown,  with  her  hair  loose,  and  a  candle  held  high 
above  her  head.     Taking  in  the  strange  half- 
-  circle  round  the  stove,  she  recoils.     Then,  stand- 
ing her  ground,  calls  in  a  voice  sharpened  by 
fright:  "Daddy— Daddy!" 
TIMSON.  [Stirring  uneasily,  and  struggling  to  his  feet.] 

All  ri !     I'm  comin'! 

FERRAND.  Have  no  fear,  Madame! 

[In  the  silence  that  follows,  a  clock  begins  loudly 
striking  twelve.  ANN  remains,  as  if  carved  in 
stone,  her  eyes  fastened  on  the  strangers.  There 
is  the  sound  of  someone  falling  downstairs,  and 
WELLWTN  appears,  also  holding  a  candle  above 
his  head. 
ANN.  Look! 

WEMJWTN.  Yes,  yes,  my  dear!    It — it  happened. 
ANN.  [With  a  sort  of  groan.]  Oh!  Daddy! 

[In  the  renewed  silence,  the  church  clock  ceases  to 

chime. 

FERRAND.  [Softly,  in  his  ironic  voice.]  HE  is  come, 
Monsieur!  'Appy  Christmas!    Bon  Noel! 

[There  is  a  sudden  chime  of  bells. 
The  Stage  is  blotted  dark. 

Curtain. 


ACT  II 

It  is  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  New  Year's  Day, 
On  the  raised  dais  MRS.  MEGAN  is  standing,  in  her 
rags;  with  bare  feet  and  ankles,  her  dark  hair  as  if 
blown  about,  her  lips  parted,  holding  out  a  dishevelled 
bunch  of  violets.  Before  his  easel,  WELLWYN  is 
painting  her.  Behind  him,  at  a  table  between  the 
cupboard  and  the  door  to  tlie  model's  room,  TIMSON  is 
washing  brushes,  with  the  movements  of  one  employed 
upon  relief  works!  The  samovar  is  hissing  on  the 
table  by  the  stove,  the  tea  things  are  set  out. 

WELLWYN.  Open  your  mouth. 

[Mas.  MEGAN  opens  her  mouth. 
ANN.  [In   hat  and  coat,   entering  from  the   house.] 
Daddy! 

[WELLWYN  goes  to  her;    and,  released  from  re- 
straint, MRS.  MEGAN  looks  round  at  TIMSON 
and  grimaces. 
WELLWYN.  Well,  my  dear? 

[They  speak  in  low  voices. 

ANN.  [Holding  out  a  note.]  This  note  from  Canon 

Bertley.     He's  going  to  bring  her  husband  here  this 

afternoon.  [She  looks  at  MRS.  MEGAN. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!          [He  also  looks  at  MRS.  MEGAN. 

27 


28  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

ANN.  And  I  met  Sir  Thomas  Hoxton  at  church  this 
morning,  and  spoke  to  him  about  Timson. 
WELLWYN.  Um! 

[They  look  at  TIMSON.     Then  ANN  goes  back  to 

the  door,  and  WELLWYN  follows  her. 
ANN.  [Turning.]  I'm  going  round  now,  Daddy,  to 
ask  Professor  Calway  what  we're  to  do  with  that  Fer- 
rand. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!  One  each!  I  wonder  if  they'll 
like  it. 

ANN.  They'll  have  to  lump  it. 

[She  goes  out  into  the  house. 

WELLWTN.  [Back  at  his  easel.]  You  can  shut  your 
mouth  now. 

[MBS.  MEGAN  shuts  her  mouth,  but  opens  it  im- 
mediately to  smile. 

WELLWYN.  [Spasmodically.]  Ah!  Now  that's  what 
I  want.  [He  dabs  furiously  at  the  canvas.  Then  stand- 
ing back,  runs  his  hands  through  his  hair  and  turns  a 
painter's  glance  towards  the  skylight.]  Dash!  Light's 
gone!  Off  you  get,  child — don't  tempt  me! 

[MRS.  MEGAN   descends.     Passing   towards   the 
door  of  the  model's  room  she  stops,  and  stealthily 
looks  at  the  picture. 
TIMSON.  Ah!    Would  yer! 

WELLWYN.  [Wheeling  round.]  Want  to  have  a  look? 
Well — come  on! 

[He  takes  her  by  the  arm,  and  they  stand  before  the 

canvas.     After  a  stolid  moment,  she  giggles. 
WELLWYN.  Oh!    You  think  so? 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  2& 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Who  has  lost  her  hoarseness.]  It's  not 
like  my  picture  that  I  had  on  the  pier. 
WELLWYN.  No — it  wouldn't  be. 
MRS.  MEGAN.  [Timidly.]  If  I  had  an  'at  on,  I'd  look 
better. 

WELLWYN.  With  feathers? 
MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes. 

WELLWYN.  Well,  you  can't!    I  don't  like  hats,  and 
I  don't  like  feathers. 

[MRS.  MEGAN  timidly  tugs  his  sleeve.  TIMSON, 
screened  as  he  thinks  by  the  picture,  has  drawn 
from  his  bulky  pocket  a  bottle  and  is  taking  a 
stealthy  swig. 

WELLWYN.  [To  MRS.  MEGAN,  affecting  not  to  notice.] 
How  much  do  I  owe  you? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [A  little  surprised.]  You  paid  me  for 
to-day — all  'cept  a  penny. 

WELLWYN.  Well!    Here  it  is.  [He  gives  her  a  coin.] 
Go  and  get  your  feet  on! 
MRS.  MEGAN.  You've  give  me  'arf  a  crown. 
WELLWYN.  Cut  away  now! 

[MRS.  MEGAN,  smiling  at  the  coin,  goes  towards 
the  model's  room.  She  looks  back  at  WELLWYN, 
as  if  to  draw  his  eyes  to  her,  but  he  is  gazing  at 
the  picture;  then,  catching  old  TIMSON'S  sour 
glance,  she  grimaces  at  him,  kicking  up  her  feet 
with  a  little  squeal.  But  when  WELLWYN  turns 
to  the  sound,  she  is  demurely  passing  through  the 
doorway. 


30  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

TUCSON.  [In  his  voice  of  dubious  sobriety.]  I've  fin- 
ished these  yer  brushes,  sir.  It's  not  a  man's  work. 
I've  been  thinkin'  if  you'd  keep  an  'orse,  I  could  give 
yer  satisfaction. 

WELLWYN.  Would  the  horse,  Timson? 

TIMSON.  [Looking  him  up  and  down.]  I  knows  of  one 
that  would  just  suit  yer.  Reel  'orse,  you'd  like  'im. 

WELLWYN.  [Shaking  his  head.]  Afraid  not,  Timson! 
Awfully  sorry,  though,  to  have  nothing  better  for  you 
than  this,  at  present. 

TIMSON.  [Faintly  waving  the  brushes.]  Of  course,  if 
you  can't  afford  it,  I  don't  press  you— it's  only  that  I 
feel  I'm  not  doing  meself  justice.  [Confidentially.] 
There's  just  one  thing,  sir;  I  can't  bear  to  see  a  gen'le- 
man  imposed  on.  That  foreigner — 'e's  not  the  sort  to 
'ave  about  the  place.  Talk?  Oh!  ah!  But 'e'll  never 
do  any  good  with  'imself.  He's  a  alien. 

WELLWYN.  Terrible  misfortune  to  a  fellow,  Timson. 

TIMSON.  Don't  you  believe  it,  sir;  it's  his  fault  I 
says  to  the  young  lady  yesterday:  Miss  Ann,  your 
father's  a  gen'leman  [with  a  sudden  accent  of  hoarse  sin- 
cerity], and  so  you  are — I  don't  mind  sayin'  it — but,  I 
said,  he's  too  easy-goin'. 

WELLWYN.  Indeed! 

TIMSON.  Well,  see  that  girl  now !  [He  shakes  his  head.] 
I  never  did  believe  in  goin'  behind  a  person's  back — 
I'm  an  Englishman — but  [lowering  his  voice]  she's  a 
bad  hat,  sir.  Why,  look  at  the  street  she  comes  from ! 

WELLWYN.  Oh!  you  know  it. 

TIMSON.  Lived  there  meself  larst  three  years.    See 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  31 

the  difference  a  few  days'  corn's  made  in  her.  She's 
that  saucy  you  can't  touch  'er  head. 

WELLWYN.  Is  there  any  necessity,  Timson  ? 

TIMSON.  Artful  too.  Full  o'  vice,  I  call  'er.  Where's 
'er  'usband? 

WELLWYN.  [Gravely.]  Come,  Timson!  You  wouldn't 
like  her  to 

TIMSON.  [With  dignity,  so  that  the  bottle  in  his  pocket 
is  plainly  visible.]  I'm  a  man  as  always  beared  inspec- 
tion. 

WELLWYN.  [With  a  well-directed  smile.]  So  I  see. 

TIMSON.  [Curving  himself  round  the  bottle.]  It's  not 
for  me  to  say  nothing — but  I  can  tell  a  gen'leman  as 
quick  as  ever  I  can  tell  an  'orse. 

WELLWYN.  [Painting.]  I  find  it  safest  to  assume 
that  every  man  is  a  gentleman,  and  every  woman  a 
lady.  Saves  no  end  of  self-contempt.  Give  me  the 
little  brush. 

TIMSON.  [Handing  him  the  brush — after  a  consider- 
able introspective  pause.]  Would  yer  like  me  to  stay  and 
wash  it  for  yer  again  ?  [With  great  resolution.]  I  will — 
I'll  do  it  for  you — never  grudged  workin'  for  a  gen'le- 
man. 

WELLWTN.  [With  sincerity.]  Thank  you,  Timson — 
very  good  of  you,  I'm  sure.  [He  hands  him  back  the 
brush.]  Just  lend  us  a  hand  with  this.  [Assisted  by  TIM- 
SON  he  pushes  back  the  dais.]  Let's  see!  What  do  I  owe 
you? 

TIMSON.  [Reluctantly.]  It  so  'appens,  you  advanced 
me  to-day's  yesterday. 


32  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 


.  Then  I  suppose  you  want  to-morrow's  ? 
TIMSON.  Well,  I  'ad  to  spend  it,  lookin'  for  a  per- 
manent job.     When  you've  got  to  do  with  'orses,  you 
can't  neglect  the  publics,  or  you  might  as  well   be 
dead. 

WELLWYN.  Quite  so! 

TIMSON.  It  mounts  up  in  the  course  o'  the  year. 
WELLWYN.  It  would.  [Passing  him  a  coin.]  This  is 
for  an  exceptional  purpose  —  Timson  —  see.     Not  - 

TIMSON.  [Touching  his  forehead.]  Certainly,  sir.  I 
quite  understand.  I'm  not  that  sort,  as  I  think  I've 
proved  to  yer,  comin'  here  regular  day  after  day,  all 
the  week.  There's  one  thing,  I  ought  to  warn  you  per- 
haps —  I  might  'ave  to  give  this  job  up  any  day. 

[He  makes  a  faint  demonstration  with  the  little 
brush,  then  puts  it,  absent-mindedly,  into  his 
pocket. 

WELLWYN.  [Gravely.]  I'd  never  stand  in  the  way  of 
your  bettering  yourself,  Timson.  And,  by  the  way, 
my  daughter  spoke  to  a  friend  about  you  to-day.  I 
think  something  may  come  of  it. 

TIMSON.  Oh!  Oh!  She  did!  Well,  it  might  do  me 
a  bit  o'  good.  [He  makes  for  the  outer  door,  but  stops.] 
That  foreigner!  'E  sticks  in  my  gizzard.  It's  not  as 
if  there  wasn't  plenty  o'  pigeons  for  'im  to  pluck  in  'is 
own  Gawd-forsaken  country.  Reg-lar  jay,  that's  what 
I  calls  'im.  I  could  tell  yer  something  - 

[He  has  opened  the  door,  and  suddenly  sees  thai 
FEBBAND  himself  is  standing  there.  Sticking 
out  his  lower  lip,  TIMSON  gives  a  roll  of  his  jaw 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  33 

and  lurches  forth  into  the  street.  Owing  to  a 
alight  miscalculation,  his  face  and  raised  arms 
are  plainly  visible  through  the  window,  as  he  for- 
tifies himself  from  his  battle  against  the  cold. 
FEKKAND,  having  closed  the  door,  stands  with 
his  thumb  acting  as  pointer  towards  this  spectacle. 
He  is  now  remarkably  dressed  in  an  artist's 
squashy  green  hat,  a  frock  coat  too  small  for  him, 
a  bright  bhie  tie  of  knitted  silk,  the  grey  trousers 
that  were  torn,  well-worn  brown  boots,  and  a  tan 
waistcoat. 

WELLWYN.  What  luck  to-day  ? 
FERRAND.  [With  a  shrug.]  Again  I  have  beaten  all 
London,  Monsieur — not  one  bite.  [Contemplating  him- 
self.] I  think  perhaps,  that,  for  the  bourgeoisie,  there  is 
a  little  too  much  colour  in  my  costume. 

WELLWYN.  [Contemplating  him.]  Let's  see — I  be- 
lieve I've  an  old  top  hat  somewhere. 

FERRAND.  Ah!    Monsieur,  merci,  but  that  I  could 
not.    It  is  scarcely  in  my  character. 
WELLWYN.  True! 

FERRAND.  I  have  been  to  merchants  of  wine,  of  tabac, 
to  hotels,  to  Leicester  Square.  I  have  been  to  a — 
Society  for  spreading  Christian  knowledge — I  thought 
there  I  would  have  a  chance  perhaps  as  interpreter. 
Toujours  meme  chose — we  regret,  we  have  no  situation 
for  you — same  thing  everywhere.  It  seems  there  is 
nothing  doing  in  this  town. 

WELLWYN.  I've  noticed,  there  never  is. 

FERRAND.  I  was  thinking,  Monsieur,  that  in  avia- 


34  THE   PIGEON  ACT  ir 

lion  there  might  be  a  career  for  me — but  it  seems  one 
must  be  trained. 

WELLWYN.  Afraid  so,  Ferrand. 
FERBAND.  [Approaching  the  picture.]  Ah!  You  are 
always  working  at  this.  You  will  have  something  of 
very  good  there,  Monsieur.  You  wish  to  fix  the  type 
of  wild  savage  existing  ever  amongst  our  high  civilisa- 
tion. C'est  tres  chic  ca!  [WELLWYN  manifests  the  quiet 
delight  of  an  English  artist  actually  understood.]  In  the 
figures  of  these  good  citizens,  to  whom  she  offers  her 
flower,  you  would  give  the  idea  of  all  the  cage  doors 
open  to  catch  and  make  tame  the  wild  bird,  that  will 
surely  die  within.  Tres  gentil!  Believe  me,  Monsieur, 
you  have  there  the  greatest  comedy  of  life !  How  anx- 
ious are  the  tame  birds  to  do  the  wild  birds  good.  [His 
voice  changes.]  For  the  wild  birds  it  is  not  funny.  There 
is  in  some  human  souls,  Monsieur,  what  cannot  be 
made  tame. 

WELLWYN.  I  believe  you,  Ferrand. 

[The  face  of  a  young  man  appears  at  the  window, 
unseen.  Suddenly  ANN  opens  the  door  leading 
to  the  house. 

ANN.  Daddy — I  want  you. 
WELLWYN.  [To  FERRAND.]  Excuse  me  a  minute! 

[He  goes  to  his  daughter,  and  they  pass  out. 
[FERRAND  remains  at  the  picture.  MRS.  MEGAN 
dressed  in  some  of  ANN'S  discarded  garments, 
has  come  out  of  the  model's  room.  She  steals  up 
behind  FERRAND  like  a  cat,  reaches  an  arm  up, 
and  curls  it  round  his  mouth.  He  turns,  and 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  SS 

tries  to  seize  her;  she  disingenuously  slips  away. 
He  follows.  The  chase  circles  the  tea  table.  He 
catches  her,  lifts  her  up,  swings  round  with  her, 
so  that  Tier  feet  fly  out;  kisses  her  bent-back  face, 
and  sets  her  down.  She  stands  there  smiling. 
The  face  at  the  window  darkens. 
FEBRAND.  La  Valse! 

{He  takes  her  with  both  hands  by  the  waist,  she  puts 
her  hands  against  his  shoulders  to  push  him  off 
— and  suddenly  they  are  whirling.  As  they 
whirl,  they  bob  together  once  or  twice,  and  kiss. 
Then,  with  a  warning  motion  towards  the  door, 
she  wrenches  herself  free,  and  stops  beside  the 
picture,  trying  desperately  to  appear  demure. 
WELLWYN  and  ANN  have  entered.  The  face 
has  vanished. 

FERRAND.  [Pointing  to  the  picture.}  One  does  not 
comprehend  all  this,  Monsieur,  without  well  studying. 
I  was  in  train  to  interpret  for  Ma'moiselle  the  chiaro- 
scuro. 

WELLWYN.  [With  a  queer  look.]  Don't  take  it  too 
seriously,  Ferrand. 

FERRAND.  It  is  a  masterpiece. 

WELLWYN.  My  daughter's  just  spoken  to  a  friend, 
Professor  Calway.  He'd  like  to  meet  you.  Could  you 
come  back  a  little  later  ? 

FERRAND.  Certainly,  Ma'moiselle.  That  will  be  an 
opening  for  me,  I  trust.  [He  goes  to  the  street  door. 

ANN.  [Paying  no  attention  to  him.]  Mrs.  Megan,  will 
you  too  come  back  in  hah*  an  hour  ? 


56  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

FERRAND.  Tres  bien,  Ma'moisellel  I  will  see  that 
she  does.  We  will  take  a  little  promenade  together. 
That  will  do  us  good. 

[He  motions  towards  the  door;  MRS.  MEGAN,  all 
eyes,  follows  him  out. 

ANN.  Oh!  Daddy,  they  are  rotters.  Couldn't  you 
see  they  were  having  the  most  high  jinks  ? 

WELLWTN.  [At  his  picture.]  I  seemed  to  have  no- 
ticed something. 

ANN.  [Preparing  for  tea.]  They  were  kissing. 

WELLWTN.  Tt!    Tt! 

ANN.  They're  hopeless,  all  three — especially  her. 
Wish  I  hadn't  given  her  my  clothes  now. 

WELLWTN.  [Absorbed.]  Something  of  wild-savage. 

ANN.  Thank  goodness  it's  the  Vicar's  business  to  see 
that  married  people  live  together  in  his  parish. 

WELLWTN.  Oh!  [Dubiously.]  The  Megans  are  Ro- 
man Catholic-Atheists,  Ann. 

ANN.  [With  heat.]  Then  they're  all  the  more  bound. 
[WELLWTN  gives  a  sudden  and  alarmed  whistle. 

ANN.  What's  the  matter? 

WELLWTN.  Didn't  you  say  you  spoke  to  Sir  Thomas, 
too.  Suppose  he  comes  in  while  the  Professor's  here. 
They're  cat  and  dog. 

ANN.  [Blankly.]  Oh!  [As  WELLWTN  strikes  a  match.] 
The  samovar  is  lighted.  [Taking  up  the  nearly  empty 
decanter  of  rum  and  going  to  the  cupboard.]  It's  all  right. 
He  won't. 

WELLWTN.  We'll  hope  not. 

[He  turns  back  to  his  picture. 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  37 

ANN.  [At  the  cupboard.]  Daddy! 

WELLWYN.  Hi! 

ANN.  There  were  three  bottles. 

WELLWYN.  Oh! 

ANN.  Well !    Now  there  aren't  any. 

WELLWYN.  [Abstracted.]  That'll  be  Timson. 

ANN.  [With  real  horror.]  But  it's  awful! 

WELLWYN.  It  is,  my  dear. 

ANN.  In  seven  days.    To  say  nothing  of  the  stealing 

WELLWYN.  [Vexed.]  I  blame  myself — very  much. 
Ought  to  have  kept  it  locked  up. 

ANN.  You  ought  to  keep  him  locked  up! 

[There  is  heard  a  mild  but  authoritative  knock. 

WELLWYN.  Here's  the  Vicar! 

ANN.  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  the  rum  ? 

WELLWYN.  [Opening  the  door  to  CANON  BERTLEY.] 
Come  in,  Vicar!  Happy  New  Year! 

BERTLEY.  Same  to  you!  Ah!  Ann!  I've  got  into 
touch  with  her  young  husband — he's  coming  round. 

ANN.  [Still  a  little  out  of  her  plate.]  Thank  Go 

Moses! 

BERTLEY.  [Faintly  surprised.]  From  what  I  hear  he's 
not  really  a  bad  youth.  Afraid  he  bets  on  horses.  The 
great  thing,  Wellwyn,  with  those  poor  fellows  is  to  put 
your  finger  on  the  weak  spot. 

ANN.  [To  herself — gloomily.]  That's  not  difficult. 
What  would  you  do,  Canon  Bertley,  with  a  man  who's 
been  drinking  father's  rum? 

BERTLEY.  Remove  the  temptation,  of  course. 

WELLWYN.  He's  done  that. 


38  THE   PIGEON  ACT  n 

BERTLEY.  Ah!  Then —  [WELLWYN  and  ANN  hang 
on  his  wards]  then  I  should — er 

ANN.  [Abruptly.]  Remove  him. 

BERTLEY.  Before  I  say  that,  Ann,  I  must  certainly 
see  the  individual. 

WELLWYN.  [Pointing  to  the  window.]  There  he  is! 
[In  the  failing  light  TIMSON'S  face  is  indeed  to  be 
seen  pressed  against  the  window  pane. 

ANN.  Daddy,  I  do  wish  you'd  have  thick  glass  put 

in.    It's  so  disgusting  to  be  spied  at!  [WELLWYN  going 

quickly  to  the  door,  has  opened  it.]  What  do  you  want? 

[TmsoN  enters  with  dignity.     He  is  fuddled. 

TIMSON.  [Slowly.]  Arskin'  yer  pardon — thought  it 
me  duty  to  come  back — found  thish  yer  little  brishel  on 
me.  [He  produces  the  little  paint  brush. 

ANN.  [In  a  deadly  voice.]  Nothing  else? 

[TIMSON  accords  her  a  glassy  stare. 

WELLWYN.  [Taking  the  brush  hastily.]  That'll  do, 
Timson,  thanks! 

TIMSON.  As  I  am  'ere,  can  I  do  anything  for  yer? 

ANN.  Yes,  you  can  sweep  out  that  little  room.  [She 
points  to  the  model's  room.]  There's  a  broom  in  there. 

TIMSON.  [Disagreeably  surprised.]  Certainly;  never 
make  bones  about  a  little  extra — never  'ave  in  all  me 
life.  Do  it  at  onsh,  I  will.  [He  moves  across  to  the  model's 
room  at  that  peculiar  broad  gait  so  perfectly  adjusted  to 
his  habits.]  You  quite  understand  me — couldn't  bear  to 
'ave  anything  on  me  that  wasn't  mine. 

[He  pastes  out. 

ANN.  Old  fraud! 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  89 

WELLWTN.  "In"  *nd  "on."    Mark  my  words,  he'll 
restore  the — bottles. 

BERTLEY.  But,  my  dear  Wellwyn,  that  is  stealing. 
WELLWYN.  We  all  have  our  discrepancies,  Vicar. 
ANN.  Daddy!    Discrepancies! 
WELLWYN.  Well,  Ann,  my  theory  is  that  as  regards 
solids  Tirnson's  an  Individualist,  but  as  regards  liquids 
he's  a  Socialist  ...  or  vice  versd,  according  to  taste. 

BERTLEY.  No,  no,  we  mustn't  joke  about  it.  [Gravely.] 
I  do  think  he  should  be  spoken  to. 
WELLWYN.  Yes,  but  not  by  me. 
BERTLEY.  Surely  you're  the  proper  person. 
WELLWYN.  [Shaking  his  head.]  It  was  my  rum,  Vicar. 
Look  so  personal. 

[There  sound  a  number  of  little  tot-tat  knocks. 
WELLWYN.  Isn't  that  the  Professor's  knock? 

[While  Ann  sits  down  to  make  tea,  he  goes  to  the 
door  and  opens  it.  There,  dressed  in  an  ulster, 
stands  a  thin,  clean-shaved  man,  with  a  little 
hollow  sucked  into  either  cheek,  who,  taking  off 
a  grey  squash  hat,  discloses  a  majestically  bald 
forehead,  which  completely  dominates  all  that 
comes  below  it. 

WELLWYN.  Come  in,  Professor!    So  awfully  good 
of  you!    You  know  Canon  Bertley,  I  think? 
CALWAY.  Ah!    How  d'you  do? 
WELLWYN.  Your  opinion  will  be  invaluable,  Pro- 
fessor. 
ANN.  Tea,  Professor  Calway? 

(They  have  assembled  round  the  tea  table. 


40  THE  PIGEON  ACT  u 

CALWAY.  Thank  you;  no  tea;  milk. 

WELLWYN.  Rum? 

[He  pours  rum  into  CALWAY'S  milk. 

CALWAY.  A  little — thanks!  [Turning  to  ANN.]  You 
were  going  to  show  me  some  one  you're  trying  to  rescue, 
or  something,  I  think. 

ANN.  Oh!  Yes.  He'll  be  here  directly — simply  per- 
fect rotter. 

CALWAY.  [Smiling.]  Really!  Ah!  I  think  you  said 
he  was  a  congenital  ? 

WELLWYN.  [With  great  interest.]  What! 

ANN.  [Low.]  Daddy!  [To  CALWAY.]  Yes;  I— I  think 
that's  what  you  call  him. 

CALWAY.  Not  old  ? 

ANN.  No;  and  quite  healthy — a  vagabond. 

CALWAY.  [Sipping.]  I  see!  Yes.  Is  it,  do  you  think 
chronic  unemployment  with  a  vagrant  tendency?  Or 
would  it  be  nearer  the  mark  to  say:  Vagrancy 

WELLWYN.  Pure!  Oh!  pure!  Professor.  Awfully 
human. 

CALWAY.  [With  a  smile  of  knowledge.]  Quite!    And 

ANN.  [Breaking  in.]  Before  he  comes,  there's  an- 
other  

BEKTLEY.  [Blandly.]  Yes,  when  you  came  in,  we  were 
discussing  what  should  be  done  with  a  man  who  drinks 
rum —  [CALWAY  pauses  in  the  act  of  drinking]  that 
doesn't  belong  to  him. 

CALWAY.  Really!    Dipsomaniac? 

BERTLEY.  Well — perhaps  you  could  tell  us — drink 


ACTH  THE  PIGEON  41 

certainly  changing  thine  to  mine.     The  Professor  could 
see  him,  Wellwyn? 

ANN.  [Rising.]  Yes,  do  come  and  look  at  him,  Pro- 
fessor Calway.  He's  in  there. 

[She  points  towards  the  model's  room.    CALWAY 

smiles  deprecatingly. 
ANN.  No,  really;   we  needn't  open  the  door.    You 

can  see  him  through  the  glass.    He's  more  than  half 

CALWAY.  Well,  I  hardly 

ANN.  Oh!  Do!  Come  on,  Professor  Calway!  We 
must  know  what  to  do  with  him.  [CALWAY  rises.] 
You  can  stand  on  a  chair.  It's  all  science. 

[She  draws  CALWAY  to  the  model's  room,  which  is 
lighted  by  a  glass  panel  in  the  top  of  the  high  door. 
CANON  BERTLEY  also  rises  and  stands  watch- 
ing.    WELLWYN  hovers,  torn  between  respect  for 
science  and  dislike  of  espionage. 
ANN.  [Drawing  up  a  chair.]  Come  on! 
CALWAY.  Do  you  seriously  wish  me  to? 
ANN.  Rather!    It's  quite  safe;  he  can't  see  you. 
CALWAY.  But  he  might  come  out. 

[ANN  puts  her  back  against  the  door.     CALWAY 
mounts  the  chair  dubiously,  and  raises  his  head 
cautiously,  bending  it  more  and  more  downwards. 
ANN.  Well? 

CALWAY.  He  appears  to  be — sitting  on  the  floor. 
WELLWYN.  Yes,  that's  all  right! 

[BERTLEY  covers  his  lips. 
CALWAY.  [To  ANN — descending.]  By  the  look  of  his 


42  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

face,  as  far  as  one  can  see  it,  I  should  say  there  was  a 
leaning  towards  mania.     I  know  the  treatment. 

[  There  come  three  loud  knocks  on  the  door.  WELL- 
WTN  and  ANN  exchange  a  glance  of  consterna- 
tion. 

ANN.  Who's  that? 

WELLWYN.  It  sounds  like  Sir  Thomas. 
CALWAY.  Sir  Thomas  Hoxton  ? 
WELLWYN.  [Nodding.]  Awfully  sorry,  Professor.  You 

see,  we 

CALWAY.  Not  at  all.     Only,  I  must  decline  to  be  in- 
volved in  argument  with  him,  please. 

BERTLEY.  He  has  experience.     We  might  get  his 
opinion,  don't  you  think? 
CALWAY.  On  a  point  of  reform  ?    A  J.P. ! 
BERTLEY.  [Deprecating.]  My  dear  Sir — we  needn't 
take  it. 

[The  three  knocks  resound  with  extraordinary  fury. 
ANN.  You'd  better  open  the  door,  Daddy. 

[WELLWYN  opens  the  door.  SIB  THOMAS  HOX- 
TON is  disclosed  in  a  fur  overcoat  and  top  hat. 
His  square,  well-coloured  face  is  remarkable  for 
a  massive  jaw,  dominating  all  that  comes  above 
it.  His  voice  is  resolute. 

HOXTON.  Afraid  I  didn't  make  myself  heard. 
WELLWYN.  So  good  of  you  to  come,  Sir  Thomas. 
Canon  Bertley!  [They  greet.]  Professor  Calway  you 
know,  I  think. 
HOXTON.  [Ominously.]  I  do. 

[They  almost  greet.    An  awkward  pause, 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  43 

ANN.  [Blurting  it  out.]  That  old  cabman  I  told  you 
of  s  been  drinking  father's  rum. 

BEKTLEY.  We  were  jurt  discussing  what's  to  be  done 
with  him,  Sir  Thomas.  One  wants  to  do  the  very  best, 
of  course.  The  question  of  reform  is  always  delicate. 

CALWAY.  I  beg  your  pardon.  There  is  no  question 
here. 

HOXTON.  [Abruptly.]  Oh!    Is  he  in  the  house? 

ANN.  In  there. 

HOXTON.  Works  for  you,  eh? 

WELLWYN.  Er — yes. 

HOXTON.  Let's  have  a  look  at  him! 

[An  embarrassed  pause. 

BEBTLEY.  Well — the  fact  is,  Sir  Thomas 

CALWAY.  When  last  under  observation 

ANN.  He  was  sitting  on  the  floor. 

WELLWYN.  I  don't  want  the  old  fellow  to  feel  he's 
being  made  a  show  of.  Disgusting  to  be  spied  at,  Ann. 

ANN.  You  can't,  Daddy!    He's  drunk. 

HOXTON.  Never  mind,  Miss  Weflwyn.  Hundreds  of 
these  fellows  before  me  in  my  time.  [At  CALWAY.]  The 
only  thing  is  a  sharp  lesson ! 

CALWAY.  I  disagree.    I've  seen  the  man;   what  he 

requires  is  steady  control,  and  the  Dobbins  treatment. 

[WELLWYN  approaches  them  with  fearful  interest. 

HOXTON.  Not  a  bit  of  it!  He  wants  one  for  his 
knob!  Brace  'em  up!  It's  the  only  thing. 

BERTLEY.  Personally,  I  think  that  if  he  were  spoken 
to  seriously 

CALWAY.  I  cannot  walk  arm  in  arm  with  a  crab! 


44  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

HOXTON.  [Approaching  CALWAT.]  I  beg  your  pardon  ? 

CALWAT.  [Moving  back  a  little.]  You're  moving  back- 
wards, Sir  Thomas.  I've  told  you  before,  convinced 

reactionaryism,  in  these  days 

[There  comes  a  single  knock  on  the  street  door. 

BEBTLEY.  [Looking  at  his  watch.]  D'you  know,  I'm 
rather  afraid  this  may  be  our  young  husband,  Wellwyn. 
I  told  him  half-past  four. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!  Ah!  Yes.  [Going  towards  the  two 
reformers.]  Shall  we  go  into  the  house,  Professor,  and 
settle  the  question  quietly  while  the  Vicar  sees  a  young 
man? 

CALWAY.  [Pale  with  uncompleted  statement,  and  gravi- 
tating insensibly  in  the  direction  indicated.]  The  merest 
sense  of  continuity — a  simple  instinct  for  order 

HOXTON.  [Following.]  The  only  way  to  get  order,  sir, 
is  to  bring  the  disorderly  up  with  a  round  turn.  [CAL- 
WAY turns  to  him  in  the  doorway.]  You  people  without 
practical  experience 

CALWAY.  If  you'll  listen  to  me  a  minute. 

HOXTON.  I  can  show  you  in  a  mo 

[They  vanish  through  the  door. 

WELLWYN.  I  was  afraid  of  it. 

BEBTLEY.  The  two  points  of  view.  Pleasant  to  see 
such  keenness.  I  may  want  you,  Wellwyn.  And  Ann 
perhaps  had  better  not  be  present. 

WELLWYN.  [Relieved.]  Quite  so!    My  dear! 

[ANN  goes  reluctantly.  WELLWYN  opens  the 
street  door.  The  lamp  outside  has  just  been 
lighted,  and,  by  Us  gleam,  is  seen  the  figure  of 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  45 

RORT  MEGAN,  thin,  pale,  youthful.    ANN  turn- 
ing at  the  door  into  the  house  gives  him  a  long, 
inquisitive  look,  then  goes. 
WELLWTN.  Is  that  Megan? 
MEGAN.  Yus. 
WELLWTN.  Come  in. 

[MEGAN  comes  in.  There  follows  an  awkward 
silence,  during  which  WELLWTN  turns  up  the 
light,  then  goes  to  the  tea  table  and  pours  out  a 
glass  of  tea  and  rum. 

BEBTLET.  [Kindly.]  Now,  my  boy,  how  is  it  that 
you  and  your  wife  are  living  apart  like  this? 
MEGAN.  I  dunno. 

BEKTLEY.  Well,  if  you  don't,  none  of  us  are  very 
likely  to,  are  we? 

MEGAN.  That's  what  I  thought,  as  I  was  comin' 
along. 

WELLWTN.  [Twinkling.]  Have  some  tea,  Megan? 
[Handing  him  the  glass.]  What  d'you  think  of  her  pic- 
ture? 'Tisn't  quite  finished. 

MEGAN.  [After  scrutiny.]  I  seen  her  look  like  it — 
once. 

WELLWTN.  Good!    When  was  that? 
MEGAN.  [Stoically.]  When  she  'ad  the  measles. 

[He  drinla. 

WELLWTN.  [Ruminating.}  I  see — yes.  I  quite  see — 
feverish! 

BEBTLET.  My  dear  Wellwyn,  let  me [To  ME- 
GAN.] Now,  I  hope  you're  willing  to  come  together 
again,  and  to  maintain  her? 


46  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

MEGAN.  If  she'll  maintain  me. 

BERTLET.  Oh!  but I  see,  you  mean  you're  in 

the  same  line  of  business? 

MEGAN.  Yus. 

BERTLET.  And  lean  on  each  other.    Quite  so! 

MEGAN.  I  leans  on  'er  mostly — with  'er  looks. 

BERTLET.  Indeed!    Very  interesting — that! 

MEGAN.  Yus.    Sometimes  she'll  take  'arf  a  crown 
off  of  a  toff.  [He  looks  at  WELLWTN. 

WELLWTN.  [Turinkling.]  I  apologise  to  you,  Megan. 

MEGAN.  [With  a  faint  smile.]  I  could  do  with  a  bit 
more  of  it. 

BERTLET.  [Dubiously.]  Yes!    Yes!    Now,  my  boy, 
I've  heard  you  bet  on  horses. 

MEGAN.  No,  I  don't. 

BERTLET.  Play  cards,  then?  Come!  Don't  be  afraid 
to  acknowledge  it. 

MEGAN.  When  I'm  'ard  up — yus. 

BERTLET.  But  don't  you  know  that's  ruination? 

MEGAN.  Depends.    Sometimes  I  wins  a  lot. 

BERTLET.  You  know  that's  not  at  all  what  I  mean. 
Come,  promise  me  to  give  it  up. 

MEGAN.  I  dunno  abaht  that. 

BERTLET.  Now,  there's  a  good  fellow.    Make  a  big 
effort  and  throw  the  habit  off! 

MEGAN.  Comes  over  me — same  as  it  might  over  you. 

BERTLET.  Over  me!    How  do  you  mean,  my  boy? 

MEGAN.  [With  a  look  up.]  To  tork! 

[WELLWTN,  turning  to  the  picture,  makes  a  funny 
little  noise. 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  47 

BERTLEY.  [Maintaining   his  good   humour.]  A  hit! 
But  you  forget,  you  know,  to  talk's  my  business.    It's 
not  yours  to  gamble. 
MEGAN.  You  try  sellin'  flowers.    If  that  ain't  a — 

gamble 

BERTLEY.  I'm  afraid  we're  wandering  a  little  from  the 
point.    Husband  and  wife  should  be  together.    You 

were  brought  up  to  that.     Your  father  and  mother 

MEGAN.  Never  was. 

WELLWYN.  [Turning  from  the  picture.]  The  question 
is,  Megan:  Will  you  take  your  wife  home?    She's  a 
good  little  soul. 
MEGAN.  She  never  let  me  know  it. 

[There  is  a  feeble  knock  on  the  door. 
WEiiLWYN.  Well,  now  come.    Here  she  is! 

[He  points  to  the  door,   and  stands  regarding 

MEGAN  vrith  his  friendly  smile. 
MEGAN.  [With  a  gleam  of  responsiveness.]  I  might, 
perhaps,  to  please  you,  sir. 

BERTLEY.  [Appropriating    the    gesture.]   Capital,   I 
thought  we  should  get  on  in  time. 
MEGAN.  Yus. 

[WELLWYN  opens  the  door.    MRS.  MEGAN  and 
FERRAND  are  revealed.     They  are  about  to  enter  t 
but  catching  sight  of  MEGAN,  hesitate. 
BERTLEY.  Come  in!    Come  in! 

[MRS.  MEGAN  enters  stolidly.  FERRAND,  follow- 
ing, stands  apart  with  an  air  of  extreme  detach- 
ment. MEGAN,  after  a  quick  glance  at  them 


48  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

both,  remains  unmoved.  No  one  has  noticed 
that  the  door  of  the  model's  room  has  been  opened, 
and  that  the  unsteady  figure  of  old  TIMSON  is 
standing  there. 

BEBTLET.  [A  little  awkward  in  the  presence  of  FER- 
RAND — to  the  MEGANB.]  This  begins  a  new  chapter. 
We  won't  improve  the  occasion.  No  need. 

[MEGAN,  turning  towards  his  wife,  makes  her  a 
gesture  as  if  to  say:  "Here!  let's  get  out  of 
this!" 

BEBTLEY.  Yes,  yes,  you'll  like  to  get  home  at  once 
— I  know.  [He  holds  up  his  hand  mechanically. 

TIMSON.  I  forbids  the  banns. 
BERTLEY.  [Startled.]  Gracious! 
TIMSON.  [Extremely  unsteady.}  Just  cause  and  iin- 
pejiment.     There  'e  stands.  [He  points  to  FERRAND.] 
The  crimson  foreigner!    The  mockin'  jay! 
WELLWYN.  Timson! 

TIMSON.  You're  a  gen'leman — I'm  aweer  o'  that — 
but  I  must  speak  the  truth — [he  waves  his  hand]  an' 
shame  the  devil! 

BERTLEY.  Is  this  the  rum ? 

TIMSON.  [Struck  by  the  word.]  I'm  a  teetotaler. 
WELLWYN.  Timson,  Timson! 

TIMSON.  Seein'  as  there's  ladies  present,  I  won't  be 
conspicuous.  [Moving  away,  and  making  for  the  door, 
he  strikes  against  the  dais,  and  mounts  upon  it.]  But  what 
I  do  say,  is:  He's  no  better  than  'er  and  she's  worse. 
BERTLEY.  This  is  distressing. 


icr  n  THE  PIGEON  49 

FERRAND.  [Calmly.]  On  my  honour,  Monsieur! 

[TiMSON  growls. 

WELLWTN.  Now,  now,  Timson! 

TIMSON.  That's  all  right.  You're  a  gen'leman,  an' 
I'm  a  gen'leman,  but  he  ain't  an'  she  ain't. 

WELLWYN.  We  shall  not  believe  you. 

BERTLEY.  No,  no;  we  shall  not  believe  you. 

TIMSON.  [Heavily.]  Very  well,  you  doubts  my  word. 
Will  it  make  any  difference,  Guv'nor,  if  I  speaks  the 
truth? 

BERTLEY.  No,  certainly  not — that  is — of  course,  it 
will. 

TIMSON.  Well,  then,  I  see  'em  plainer  than  I  see 
[pointing  at  BERTLEY]  the  two  of  you. 

WELLWYN.  Be  quiet,  Timson! 

BERTLEY.  Not  even  her  husband  believes  you. 

MEGAN.  [Suddenly.]  Don't  I! 

WELLWYN.  Come,  Megan,  you  can  see  the  old  fel- 
low's in  Paradise. 

BERTLEY.  Do  you  credit  such  a — such  an  object? 
[He  points  at  TIMSON,  who  seems  falling  asleep. 

MEGAN.  Naow! 

[Unseen  by  anybody,  ANN  has  returned. 

BERTLEY.  Well,  then,  my  boy  ? 

MEGAN.  I  seen  'em  meself.  * 

BERTLEY.  Gracious!  But  just  now  you  were  will- 
ing  

MEGAN.  [Sardonically.]  There  wasn't  nothing  against 
me  honour,  then.  Now  you've  took  it  away  between 
you,  comin'  aht  with  it  like  this.  I  don't  want  no  more 


50  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

of  'er,  and  I'll  want  a  good  deal  more  of  'im;  as  Vll 
soon  find. 

[He  jerks  his  chin  at  FERRAND,  turns  slowly  on 
his  heel,  and  goes  out  into  the  street. 

[There  follows  a  profound  silence. 

ANN.  What  did  I  say,  Daddy?    Utter!    All  three. 

[Suddenly  alive  to  her  presence,  they  all  turn. 

TIMSON.  [Waking  up  and  looking  round  him.}  Well, 

p'raps  I'd  better  go. 

[Assisted  by  WELLWYN  he  lurches  gingerly  off  the 
dais  towards  the  door,  which  WELLWYN  holds 
open  for  him. 
TIMSON.  [Mechanically.]  Where  to,  sir? 

[Receiving  no  answer  he  passes  out,  touching  his 

hat;  and  the  door  is  closed. 
WELLWYN.  Ann! 

[ANN  goes  back  whence  she  came. 

[BERTLEY,  steadily  regarding  MRS.  MEGAN,  who 

has  put  her  arm  up  in  front  of  her  face,  beckons 

to  FERRAND,  and  the  young  man  comes  gravely 

forward. 

BERTLEY.  Young  people,  this  is  very  dreadful. 
[MRS.  MEGAN  lowers  her  arm  a  little,  and  looks  at  him 
over  it.]  Very  sad! 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Dropping  her  arm.}  Megan's  no  bet- 
ter than  what  I  am. 

BERTLEY.  Come,  come!  Here's  your  home  broken 
up!  [MRS.  MEGAN  smiles.  Shaking  his  head  gravely.} 
Surely — surely — you  mustn't  smile.  [MRS.  MEGAN  be- 
comes tragic.]  That's  better.  Now,  what  is  to  be  done  ? 


ACT  n  THE   PIGEON  52 

FEBBAND.  Believe  me,  Monsieur,  I  greatly  regret. 

BERTLEY.  I'm  glad  to  hear  it. 

FEBBAND.  If  I  had  foreseen  this  disaster. 

BEBTLEY.  Is  that  your  only  reason  for  regret? 

FEBBAND.  [With  a  little  bow.]  Any  reason  that  you 
wish,  Monsieur.  I  will  do  my  possible. 

MBS.  MEGAN.  I  could  get  an  unfurnished  room  if 
[she  slides  her  eyes  round  at  WELLWTN]  I  'ad  the  money 
to  furnish  it. 

BEBTLEY.  But  suppose  I  can  induce  your  husband  to 
forgive  you,  and  take  you  back  ? 

MBS.  MEGAN.  [Shaking  her  head.]  'E'd  'it  me. 

BEBTLEY.  I  said  to  forgive. 

MBS.  MEGAN.  That  wouldn't  make  no  difference. 
[With  a  flash  at  BEBTLEY.]  An'  I  ain't  forgiven  him! 

BEBTLEY.  That  is  sinful. 

MBS.  MEGAN.  I'm  a  Catholic. 

BEBTLEY.  My  good  child,  what  difference  does  that 
make? 

FEBRAND.  Monsieur,  if  I  might  interpret  for  her. 

[BEBTLEY  silences  him  with  a  gesture. 

MBS.  MEGAN.  [Sliding  her  eyes  towards  WELLWYN.] 
If  I  'ad  the  money  to  buy  some  fresh  stock. 

BEBTLEY.  Yes;  yes;  never  mind  the  money.  What 
I  want  to  find  in  you  both,  is  repentance. 

MBS.  MEGAN.  [With  a  flash  up  at  him.]  I  can't  get 
me  livin'  off  of  repentin'. 

BEBTLEY.  Now,  now!  Never  say  what  you  know 
to  be  wrong. 

FEBBAND.  Monsieur,  her  soul  is  very  simple. 


52  THE   PIGEON  ACT  n 

BERTLEY.  [Severely.]  I  do  not  know,  sir,  that  we 
shall  get  any  great  assistance  from  your  views.  In 
fact,  one  thing  is  clear  to  me,  she  must  discontinue 
your  acquaintanceship  at  once. 

FERRAND.  Certainly,  Monsieur.  We  have  no  serious 
intentions. 

BERTLEY.  All  the  more  shame  to  you,  then! 

FERRAND.  Monsieur,  I  see  perfectly  your  point  of 
view.  It  is  very  natural.  [He  bows  and  is  silent. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I  don't  want  'im  hurt  'cos  o'  me.  Me- 
gan'll  get  his  mates  to  belt  him — bein'  foreign  like  he  is. 

BERTLEY.  Yes,  never  mind  that.  It's  you  I'm  think- 
ing of. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I'd  sooner  they'd  hit  me. 

WELLWYN.  [Suddenly.]  Well  said,  my  child! 

MRS.  MEGAN.  'Twasn't  his  fault. 

FERRAND.  [Without  irony — to  WELLWYN.]  I  cannot 
accept  that  Monsieur.  The  blame — it  is  all  mine. 

ANN.  [Entering   suddenly  from   the   house.]  Daddy, 

they're  having  an  awful ! 

[The  voices  of  PROFESSOR  CALWAY  and  SIR 
THOMAS  HOXTON  are  distinctly  heard. 

CALWAY.  The  question  is  a  much  wider  one,  Sir 
Thomas. 

HOXTON.  As  wide  as  you  like,  you'll  never 

[WELLWYN  pushes  ANN  back  into  the  house  and 
closes  the  door  behind  her.  The  voices  are  still 
faintly  heard  arguing  on  the  threshold. 

BERTLEY.  Let  me  go  in  here  a  minute,  Wellwyn.  I 
must  finish  speaking  to  her.  [He  motions  MRS.  MEGAN 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  53 

towards  the  model's  room.]  We  can't  leave  the  matter 
thus. 

FEHRAND.  [Suavely.]  Do  you  desire  my  company, 
Monsieur? 

[BERTLEY,  unth  a  prohibitive  gesture  of  his  hand, 
shepherds  the  reluctant  MRS.  MEGAN  into  the 
model's  room. 

WELLWYN.  [Sorrowfully.]  You  shouldn't  have  done 
this,  Ferrand.  It  wasn't  the  square  thing. 

FERBAND.  [With  dignity.]  Monsieur,  I  feel  that  I  am 
in  the  wrong.  It  was  stronger  than  me. 

[As  he  speaks,  SIR  THOMAS  HOXTON  and  PRO- 
FESSOR CALWAY  enter  from  the  house.     In  the 
dim  light,  and  the  full  cry  of  argument,  they  do 
not  notice  the  figures  at  the  fire.     SIR  THOMAS 
HOXTON  leads  towards  the  street  door. 
HOXTON.  No,  sir,  I  repeat,  if  the  country  once  com- 
mits itself  to  your  views  of  reform,  it's  as  good  as 
doomed. 

CALWAY.  I  seem  to  have  heard  that  before,  Sir 
Thomas.  And  let  me  say  at  once  that  your  hitty- 

missy  cart-load  of  bricks  regime 

HOXTON.  Is  a  deuced  sight  better,  sir,  than  your 
grand-motherly  methods.  What  the  old  fellow  wants 
is  a  shock!  With  all  this  socialistic  molly-coddling, 
you're  losing  sight  of  the  individual. 

CALWAY.  [Swiftly.]  You,  sir,  with  your  "devil  take 
the  hindmost,"  have  never  even  seen  him. 

[SiR  THOMAS  HOXTON,  throwing  back  a  gesture  of 
disgust,  steps  out  into  the  night,  and  falls  heavily. 


54-  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

PROFESSOR  CALWAT,  hastening  to  his  rescue, 
falls  more  heavily  still. 
iTiMSON,  momentarily  roused  from  slumber  on  the 

doorstep,  sits  up. 

HOXTON.  [Struggling  to  his  knees.]  Damnation! 
CALWAY.  [Sitting.]  How  simultaneous! 

[WELLWYN  and  FEKRAND  approach  hastily. 
FERRAND.  [Pointing  to  TIMSON.]  Monsieur,  it  was 
true,  it  seems.    They  had  lost  sight  of  the  individual. 
[A  Policeman  has  appeared  under  the  street  lamp. 

He  picks  up  HOXTON'S  hat. 
CONSTABLE.  Anything  wrong,  sir? 
HOXTON.  [Recovering  his  feet.]  Wrong?    Great  Scott! 
Constable!    Why  do  you  let  things  lie  about  in  the 
street  like  this?    Look  here,  Wellwyn! 

[They  all  scrutinize  TIMSON. 

WELLWTN.  It's  only  the  old  fellow  whose  reform 
you  were  discussing. 

HOXTON.  How  did  he  come  here? 
CONSTABLE.  Drunk,  sir.  [Ascertaining  TIMSON  to  bt 
in  the  street.}  Just  off  the  premises,  by  good  luck. 
Come  along,  father. 

TIMSON.  [Assisted  to  his  feet — drowsily.}  Cert'nly,  by 
no  means;  take  my  arm. 

[They  move  from  the  doorway.    HOXTON  and 

CALWAT  re-enter,  and  go  towards  the  fire. 
ANN.  {Entering  from  the  house.]  What's  happened? 
CALWAT.  Might  we  have  a  brush? 
HOXTON.  [Testily.]  Let  it  dry! 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  55 

[He  moves  to  the  fire  and  stands  before  it.  PRO- 
FESSOR CALWAT  following  stands  a  little  behind 
him.  ANN  returning  begins  to  brush  the  PRO- 
FESSOR'S sleeve. 

WELLWYN.  [Turning  from  the  door,  where  he  has  stood 
looking  after  the  receding  TIMSON.]  Poor  old  Timson! 

FERRAND.  [Softly.]  Must  be  philosopher,  Monsieur! 
They  will  but  run  him  in  a  little. 

[From  the  model's  room  MRS.  MEGAN  has  come 
out,  shepherded  by  CANON  BERTLEY. 

BERTLEV.  Let's  see,  your  Christian  name  ia . 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Guinevere. 

BERTLEY.  Oh!  Ah!   Ah!    Ann,  take  Gui take 

our  little  friend  into  the  study  a  minute :  I  am  going  to 
put  her  into  service.  We  shall  make  a  new  woman  of 
her,  yet. 

ANN.  [Handing  CANON  BERTLEY  the  brush,  and  turn- 
ing to  MRS.  MEGAN.]  Come  on! 

[She  leads  into  the  house,  and  MRS.  MEGAN  fottows 

stolidly. 

BERTLEY.  [Brushing    CALWAY'S    back.]  Have    you 
fallen? 

CALWAY.  Yes. 

BERTLEY.  Dear  me!    How  was  that? 
HOXTON.  That  old  ruffian  drunk  on  the  doorstep. 
Hope  they'll  give  him  a  sharp  dose !    These  rag-tags ! 

[He  looks  round,  and  his  angry  eyes  light  by  chance 

on  FERRAND. 
FERRAND.  [With  his  eyes  on  HOXTON — softly.]  Mon- 


56  THE   PIGEON  ACT  n 

sieur,  something  tells  me  it  is  time  I  took  the  road 
again. 

WELLWYN.  [Fumbling  out  a  sovereign.]  Take  this, 
then! 

FERRAND.  [Refusing  the  coin.]  Non,  Monsieur.  To 
abuse  'ospitality  is  not  in  my  character. 

BERTLEY.  We  must  not  despair  of  anyone. 

HOXTON.  Who  talked  of  despairing?  Treat  him,  as 
I  say,  and  you'll  see! 

CALWAY.  The  interest  of  the  State 

HOXTON.  The    interest    of    the    individual    citizen 

BERTLEY.  Come!    A  little  of  both,  a  little  of  both! 

[They  resume  their  brushing. 

FERRAND.  You  are  now  debarrassed  of  us  three, 
Monsieur.  I  leave  you  instead — these  sirs.  [He  points.] 
Au  revoir,  Monsieur!  [Motioning  towards  the  fire.] 
'Appy  New  Year! 

[He  slips  quietly  out.  WELLWYN,  turning,  con- 
templates the  three  reformers.  They  are  all  now 
brushing  away,  scratching  each  other's  backs, 
and  gravely  hissing.  As  he  approaches  them, 
they  speak  with  a  certain  unanimity. 

HOXTON.  My  theory ! 

CALWAY.  My  theory ! 

BERTLEY.  My  theory ! 

[They  stop  surprised.  WELLWYN  makes  a  gesture 
of  discomfort,  as  they  speak  again  with  still  more 
unanimity. 


THE  PIGEON  57 


HOXTON.  My ! 

CALWAY.  My ! 

BERTLEY.  My 1 

[They  stop  in  greater  surprise. 

The  stage  is  blotted  dark. 
Curtain. 


ACT  III 

It  is  the  first  of  April — a  white  spring  day  of  gleams  and 
driving  showers.  The  street  door  of  WELLWYN'S 
studio  stands  wide  open,  and,  past  it,  in  the  street, 
the  wind  is  whirling  bits  of  straw  and  paper  bags. 
Through  the  door  can  be  seen  the  butt  end  of  a  sta* 
tionary  furniture  van  with  its  flap  let  down.  To  this 
van  three  humble-men  in  shirt  sleeves  and  aprons, 
are  carrying  out  the  contents  of  the  studio.  The  hiss- 
ing samovar,  the  tea-pot,  the  sugar,  and  the  nearly 
empty  decanter  of  rum  stand  on  the  low  round  table 
in  the  fast-being-gutted  room.  WELLWYN  in  his 
ulster  and  soft  hat,  is  squatting  on  the  little  stool  in 
front  of  the  blazing  fire,  staring  into  it,  and  smoking 
a  hand-made  cigarette.  He  has  a  moulting  air. 
Behind  him  the  humble-men  pass,  embracing  busts 
and  other  articles  of  vertu. 

CHIEF  H'MAN.  [Stopping,  and  standing  in  the  attitude 
of  expectation.]  We've  about  pinched  this  little  lot,  sir. 
Shall  we  take  the — reservoir? 

[He  indicates  the  samovar. 

WELLWYN.  Ah!  [Abstractedly  feeling  in  his  pockets, 
and  finding  coins.]  Thanks — thanks — heavy  work,  I'm 
afraid. 

80 


60  THE   PIGEON  ACT  m 

H'MAN.  [Receiving  the  coins — a  little  surprised  and  a 
good  deal  pleased.]  Thank'ee,  sir.  Much  obliged,  I'm 
sure.  We'll  'ave  to  come  back  for  this.  [He  gives  the 
dais  a  vigorous  push  with  his  foot.]  Not  a  fixture,  as  I 
understand.  Perhaps  you'd  like  us  to  leave  these  'ere 
for  a  bit.  [He  indicates  the  tea  things. 

WELLWYN.  Ah!  do. 

[The  humble-men  go  out.  There  is  the  sound  of 
horses  being  started,  and  the  butt  end  of  the  van 
disappears.  WELLWYN  stays  on  his  stool, 
smoking  and  brooding  over  the  fire.  The  open 
doorway  is  darkened  by  a  figure.  CANON  BERT- 
LEY  is  standing  there. 

BEBTLEY.  Wellwyn!  [WELLWYN  turns  and  rises.] 
It's  ages  since  I  saw  you.  No  idea  you  were  moving. 
This  is  very  dreadful. 

WELLWYN.  Yes,  Ann  found  this — too  exposed.  That 
tall  house  in  Flight  Street — we're  going  there.  Seventh 
floor. 

BEBTLEY.  Lift? 

[WELLWYN  shakes  his  head. 

BEKTLEY.  Dear  me!  No  lift?  Fine  view,  no  doubt. 
[WELLWYN  nods.]  You'll  be  greatly  missed. 

WELLWYN.  So  Ann  thinks.  Vicar,  what's  become 
of  that  little  flower-seller  I  veas  painting  at  Christmas  ? 
You  took  her  into  service. 

BEBTLEY.  Not  we — exactly!    Some  dear  friends  of 
ours.     Painful  subject! 
WELLWYN.  Oh! 
BEBTLEY.  Yes.    She  got  the  footman  into  trouble. 


ACT  ra  THE  PIGEON  61 

WELLWTN.  Did  she,  now? 

BERTLEY.  Disappointing.  I  consulted  with  Calway, 
and  he  advised  ine  to  try  a  certain  institution.  We  got 
her  safely  in — excellent  place;  but,  d'you  know,  she 
broke  out  three  weeks  ago.  And  since — I've  heard — 
[he  holds  his  hands  up]  hopeless,  I'm  afraid — quite! 

WELLWTN.  I  thought  I  saw  her  last  night.  You  can't 
tell  me  her  address,  I  suppose? 

BERTLEY.  [Shaking  his  head.]  The  husband  too  has 
quite  passed  out  of  my  ken.  He  betted  on  horses,  you 
remember.  I'm  sometimes  tempted  to  believe  there's 
nothing  for  some  of  these  poor  folk  but  to  pray  for 
death. 

[ANN  has  entered  from  the  house.  Her  hair  hangs 
from  under  a  knitted  cap.  She  wears  a  white 
wool  jersey,  and  a  loose  silk  scarf. 

BERTLEY.  Ah!  Ann.  I  was  telling  your  father  of 
that  poor  little  Mrs.  Megan. 

ANN.  Is  she  dead? 

BERTLEY.  Worse  I  fear.  By  the  way — what  became 
of  her  accomplice? 

ANN.  We  haven't  seen  him  since.  [She  look*  search- 
ingly  at  WELLWYN.]  At  least — have  you — Daddy? 

WELLWYN.  [Rather  hurt.}  No,  my  dear;  I  have  not. 

BERTLEY.  And  the — old  gentleman  who  drank  the 
rum? 

ANN.  He  got  fourteen  days.    It  was  the  fifth  time. 

BERTLEY.  Dear  me! 

ANN.  When  he  came  out  he  got  more  drunk  than 
ever.  Rather  a  score  for  Professor  Calway,  wasn't  it? 


62  THE  PIGEON  ACT  ra 

BERTLEY.  I  remember.  He  and  Sir  Thomas  took 
a  kindly  interest  in  the  old  fellow. 

ANN.  Yes,  they  fell  over  him.  The  Professor  got 
him  into  an  Institution. 

BEBTLEY.  Indeed! 

ANN.  He  was  perfectly  sober  all  the  time  he  was 
there. 

WELLWYN.  My  dear,  they  only  allow  them  milk. 

ANN.  Well,  anyway,  he  was  reformed. 

WELLWYN.  Ye — yes! 

ANN.  [Terribly.]  Daddy!    You've  been  seeing  him! 

WELLWYN.  [With  dignity.]  My  dear,  I  have  not. 

ANN.  How  do  you  know,  then? 

WELLWYN.  Came  across  Sir  Thomas  on  the  Em- 
bankment yesterday;  told  me  old  Timson  had  been 
had  up  again  for  sitting  down  in  front  of  a  brewer's 
dray. 

ANN.  Why? 

WELLWYN.  Well,  you  see,  as  soon  as  he  came  out 
of  the  what  d'you  call  'em,  he  got  drunk  for  a  week, 
and  it  left  him  in  low  spirits. 

BERTLEY.  Do  you  mean  he  deliberately  sat  down, 
with  the  intention — of — er? 

WELLWYN.  Said  he  was  tired  of  life,  but  they  didn't 
believe  him. 

ANN.  Rather  a  score  for  Sir  Thomas!  I  suppose 
he'd  told  the  Professor?  What  did  he  say? 

WELLWYN.  Well,  the  Professor  said  [with  a  quick 
glance  at  BERTLEY]  he  felt  there  was  nothing  for  some 
of  these  poor  devils  but  a  lethal  chamber. 


ACT  m  THE  PIGEON  63 

BERTLEY.  [Shocked.]  Did  he  really! 

[He  has  not  yet  caught  WELLWYN'S  glance. 

WELLWYN.  And  Sir  Thomas  agreed.  Historic  oc- 
casion. And  you,  Vicar — H'm! 

[BERTLEY  winces. 

ANN.  [To  herself.]  Well,  there  isn't. 

BERTLEY.  And  yet!  Some  good  in  the  old  fellow,  no 
doubt,  if  one  could  put  one's  finger  on  it.  [Preparing  to 
go.]  You'll  let  us  know,  then,  when  you're  settled. 
What  was  the  address?  [WELLWYN  takes  out  and  hands 
him  a  card.]  Ah!  yes.  Good-bye,  Ann.  Good-bye, 
Wellwyn.  [The  wind  blows  his  hat  along  the  street.] 
What  a  wind!  [He  goes,  pursuing. 

ANN.  [Who  has  eyed  the  card  askance.]  Daddy,  have 
you  told  those  other  two  where  we're  going? 

WELLWYN.  Which  other  two,  my  dear? 

ANN.  The  Professor  and  Sir  Thomas. 

WELLWYN.  Well,  Ann,  naturally  I 

ANN.  [Jumping  on  to  the  dais  with  disgust.]  Oh,  dear! 
When  I'm  trying  to  get  you  away  from  all  this  atmos- 
phere. I  don't  so  much  mind  the  Vicar  knowing,  be- 
cause he's  got  a  weak  heart 

[She  jumps  off  again. 

WELLWYN.  [To  himself.]  Seventh  floor!  I  felt  there 
was  something. 

ANN.  [Preparing  to  go.]  I'm  going  round  now.  But 
you  must  stay  here  till  the  van  comes  back.  And  don't 
forget  you  tipped  the  men  after  the  first  load. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!  yes,  yes.  [Uneasily.]  Good  sorts 
they  look,  those  fellows! 


64  THE  PIGEON  ACT  ra 

ANN.  [Scrutinising  him.]  What  have  you  done? 

WELLWYN.  Nothing,  my  dear,  really ! 

ANN.  What? 

WELLWYN.  I — I  rather  think  I  may  have  tipped 
them  twice. 

ANN.  [Drily.]  Daddy!  If  it  is  the  first  of  April,  it's 
not  necessary  to  make  a  fool  of  oneself.  That's  the 
last  time  you  ever  do  these  ridiculous  things.  [WELL- 
WYN eyes  her  askance.]  I'm  going  to  see  that  you  spend 
your  money  on  yourself.  You  needn't  look  at  me  like 
that!  I  mean  to.  As  soon  as  I've  got  you  away  from 

here,  and  all — these 

WELLWYN.  Don't  rub  it  in,  Ann! 
ANN.  [Giving  him  a  sudden  hug — then  going  to  the 
door — with   a   sort   of  triumph  j     Deeds,    not   words. 
Daddy! 

[She  goes  out,  and  the  wind  catching  her  scarf 
blows  it  out  beneath  her  firm  young  chin.  WELL- 
WYN returning  to  the  fire,  stands  brooding,  and 
gazing  at  his  extinct  cigarette. 

WELLWYN.  [To  himself.]  Bad  lot — low  type!  No 
method !  No  theory ! 

[In  the  open  doorway  appear  FEKRAND  and  MRS. 
MEGAN.  They  stand,  unseen,  looking  at  him. 
FERRAND  is  more  ragged,  if  possible,  than  on 
Christmas  Eve.  His  chin  and  cheeks  are  clothed 
in  a  reddish  golden  beard.  MRS.  MEGAN'S 
dress  is  not  so  woe-begone,  but  her  face  is  white, 
her  eyes  dark-circled.  They  whisper.  She  slip* 
back  into  the  shadaiv  of  the  doorway.  WELL- 


ACT  ra  THE  PIGEON  65 

WTN  turns  at  the  sound,  and  stares  at  FERRAND 
in  amazement. 

FERRAND.  [Advancing.]  Enchanted  to  see  you,  Mon- 
sieur. [He  looks  round  the  empty  room.}  You  are  leaving  ? 

WELLWYN.  [Nodding — then  taking  the  young  man's 
hand.]  How  goes  it? 

FERRAND.  [Displaying  himself,  simply.]  As  you  see, 
Monsieur.  I  have  done  of  my  best.  It  still  flies  from 
me. 

WELLWYN.  [Sadly — as  if  against  his  will.]  Ferrand, 
it  will  always  fly. 

[The  young  foreigner  shivers  suddenly  from  head 
to  foot;  then  controls  himself  with  a  great  effort. 

FERRAND.  Don't  say  that,  Monsieur!  It  is  too 
much  the  echo  of  my  heart. 

WELL  WTN.  Forgive  me!    I  didn't  mean  to  pain  you. 

FERRAND.  [Drawing  nearer  the  fire.]  That  old  cabby, 
Monsieur,  you  remember — they  tell  me,  he  nearly  suc- 
ceeded to  gain  happiness  the  other  day. 

[WELLWYN  nods. 

FERRAND.  And  those  Sirs,  so  interested  in  him,  with 
their  theories?  He  has  worn  them  out?  [WELLWYN 
nods.}  That  goes  without  saying.  And  now  they  wish 
for  him  the  lethal  chamber. 

WELLWYN.  [Startled.]  How  did  you  know  that? 

[There  is  silence. 

FERRAND.  [Staring  into  the  fire.]  Monsieur,  while  I 
was  on  the  road  this  time  I  fell  ill  of  a  fever.  It  seemed 
to  me  in  my  illness  that  I  saw  the  truth — how  I  was 
wasting  in  this  world — I  would  never  be  good  for  any 


68  THE  PIGEON  ACT  m 

one — nor  any  one  for  me — all  would  go  by,  and  I  never 
of  it — fame,  and  fortune,  and  peace,  even  the  necessi- 
ties of  life,  ever  mocking  me. 

[He  draws  closer  to  the  fire,  spreading  his  fingers 
to  the  flame.  And  while  he  is  speaking,  through 
the  doorway  MRS.  MEGAN  creeps  in  to  listen. 

FERRAND.  [Speaking  on  into  the  fire.]  And  I  saw, 
Monsieur,  so  plain,  that  I  should  be  vagabond  all  my 
days,  and  my  days  short,  I  dying  in  the  end  the  death 
of  a  dog.  I  saw  it  all  in  my  fever — clear  as  that  flame 
— there  was  nothing  for  us  others,  but  the  herb  of  death. 
[WELLWTN  takes  his  arm  and  presses  it.]  And  so,  Mon- 
sieur, I  wished  to  die.  I  told  no  one  of  my  fever.  I 
lay  out  on  the  ground — it  was  verree  cold.  But  they 
would  not  let  me  die  on  the  roads  of  their  parishes — 
they  took  me  to  an  Institution,  Monsieur,  I  looked  in 
their  eyes  while  I  lay  there,  and  I  saw  more  clear  than 
the  blue  heaven  that  they  thought  it  best  that  I  should 
die,  although  they  would  not  let  me.  Then  Monsieur, 
naturally  my  spirit  rose,  and  I  said:  "So  much  the 
worse  for  you.  I  will  live  a  little  more."  One  is  made 
like  that!  Life  is  sweet,  Monsieur. 

WELLWTN.  Yes,  Ferrand;  Life  is  sweet. 

FERRAND.  That  little  girl  you  had  here,  Monsieur — 
[WELLWTN  nods.]  in  her  too  there  is  something  of  wild- 
savage.  She  must  have  joy  of  life.  I  have  seen  her 
since  I  came  back.  She  has  embraced  the  life  of  joy. 
It  is  not  quite  the  same  thing.  [He  lowers  his  voice.]  She 
is  lost,  Monsieur,  as  a  stone  that  sinks  in  water.  I  can 
see,  if  she  cannot.  [As  WELLWYN  makes  a  movement  of 


ACT  ra  THE  PIGEON  67 

distress.]  Oh!  I  am  not  to  blame  for  that,  Monsieur. 
It  had  well  begun  before  I  knew  her. 

WELLWTN.  Yes,  yes — I  was  afraid  of  it,  at  the  time. 
[MRS.  MEGAN  turns  silently,  and  slips  away. 

FEBRAND.  I  do  my  best  for  her,  Monsieur,  but  look 
at  me!  Besides,  I  am  not  good  for  her — it  is  not  good 
for  simple  souls  to  be  with  those  who  see  things  clear. 
For  the  great  part  of  mankind,  to  see  anything — is 
fatal. 

WELLWTN.  Even  for  you,  it  seems. 

FERRAND.  No,  Monsieur.  To  be  so  near  to  death 
has  done  me  good;  I  shall  not  lack  courage  any  more 
till  the  wind  blows  on  my  grave.  Since  I  saw  you, 
Monsieur,  I  have  been  in  three  Institutions.  They  are 
palaces.  One  may  eat  upon  the  floor — though  it  is 
true — for  Kings — they  eat  too  much  of  skilly  there. 
One  little  thing  they  lack — those  palaces.  It  is  under- 
standing of  the  'urnan  heart.  In  them  tame  birds 
pluck  wild  birds  naked. 

WELLWYN.  They  mean  well. 

FERRAND.  Ah!  Monsieur,  I  am  loafer,  waster — 
what  you  like — for  all  that  [bitterly]  poverty  is  my  only 
crime.  If  I  were  rich,  should  I  not  be  simply  veree 
original,  'ighly  respected,  with  soul  above  commerce, 
travelling  to  see  the  world?  And  that  young  girl, 
would  she  not  be  "that  charming  ladee,"  "veree  chict 
you  know!"  And  the  old  Tims — good  old-fashioned 
gentleman — drinking  his  liquor  well.  Ehl  bien — what 
are  we  now?  Dark  beasts,  despised  by  all.  That  is 
life,  Monsieur.  [He  stares  into  the  /ire. 


68  THE  PIGEON  ACT  m 

WELLWYN.  We're  our  own  enemies,  Ferrand.  I  can 
afford  it — you  can't.  Quite  true! 

FERRAND.  [Earnestly.]  Monsieur,  do  you  know  this? 
You  are  the  sole  being  that  can  do  us  good — we  hope- 
less ones. 

WELLWYN.  [Shaking  his  head.]  Not  a  bit  of  it;  I'm 
hopeless  too. 

FERRAND.  [Eagerly.]  Monsieur,  it  is  just  that.  You 
understand.  When  we  are  with  you  we  feel  something 
— here — [he  touches  his  heart.]  If  I  had  one  prayer  to 
make,  it  would  be,  Good  God,  give  me  to  understand! 
Those  sirs,  with  their  theories,  they  can  clean  our  skins 
and  chain  our  'abits — that  soothes  for  them  the  aesthetic 
sense;  it  gives  them  too  their  good  little  importance. 
But  our  spirits  they  cannot  touch,  for  they  nevare 
understand.  Without  that,  Monsieur,  all  is  dry  as  a 
parched  skin  of  orange. 

WELLWYN.  Don't  be  so  bitter.  Think  of  all  the 
work  they  do! 

FERRAND.  Monsieur,  of  their  industry  I  say  nothing. 
They  do  a  good  work  while  they  attend  with  their 
theories  to  the  sick  and  the  tame  old,  and  the  good  un- 
fortunate deserving.  Above  all  to  the  little  children. 
But,  Monsieur,  when  all  is  done,  there  are  always  us 
hopeless  ones.  What  can  they  do  with  me,  Monsieur, 
with  that  girl,  or  with  that  old  man?  Ah!  Monsieur, 
we,  too,  'ave  our  qualities,  we  others — it  wants  you 
courage  to  undertake  a  career  like  mine,  or  like  that 
young  girl's.  We  wild  ones — we  know  a  thousand 
times  more  of  life  than  ever  will  those  sirs.  They  waste 


ACT  m  THE  PIGEON  69 

their  time  trying  to  make  rooks  white,  Be  kind  to  us 
if  you  will,  or  let  us  alone  like  Mees  Ann,  but  do  not 
try  to  change  our  skins.  Leave  us  to  live,  or  leave  us 
to  die  when  we  like  in  the  free  air.  If  you  do  not  wish 
of  us,  you  have  but  to  shut  your  pockets  and  your  doors 
— we  shall  die  the  faster. 

WELLWYN.  [With  agitation.]  But  that,  you  know — 
we  can't  do — now  can  we? 

FERRAND.  If  you  cannot,  how  is  it  our  fault?  The 
harm  we  do  to  others — is  it  so  much  ?  If  I  am  criminal, 
dangerous — shut  me  up!  I  would  not  pity  myself — 
nevare.  But  we  in  whom  something  moves — like  that 
flame,  Monsieur,  that  cannot  keep  still — we  others — 
we  are  not  many — that  must  have  motion  in  our  lives, 
do  not  let  them  make  us  prisoners,  with  their  theories, 
because  we  are  not  like  them — it  is  life  itself  they  would 
enclose!  [He  draws  up  his  tattered  figure,  then  bending 
over  the  fire  again.]  I  ask  your  pardon;  I  am  talking. 
If  I  could  smoke,  Monsieur! 

[WELLWYN  hands  him  a  tobacco  pouch;  and  he 
rolls  a  cigarette  with  his  yellow-stained  fingers. 

FERRAND.  The  good  God  made  me  so  that  I  would 
rather  walk  a  whole  month  of  nights,  hungry,  with 
the  stars,  than  sit  one  single  day  making  round  busi- 
ness on  an  office  stool!  It  is  not  to  my  advantage. 
I  cannot  help  it  that  I  am  a  vagabond.  What  would 
you  have?  It  is  stronger  than  me.  [He  looks  suddenly 
at  WELLWYN.]  Monsieur,  I  say  to  you  things  I  have 
never  said. 

WELLWYN.  [Quietly.]  Go  on,  go  on.  [There  in  silence. 


70  THE  PIGEON  ACT  m 

FERRAND.  {Suddenly.}  Monsieur!    Are    you    really 
English?    The  English  are  so  civilised. 
WELLWYN.  And  am  I  not? 
FERRAND.  You  treat  me  like  a  brother. 

[WELLWYN  has  turned  towards  the  street  door  at 

a  sound  of  feet,  and  the  clamour  of  voices. 
TIMSON.  [From  the  street.]  Take  her  in  'ere.    I  knows 
*im. 

[Through  the  open  doorway  come  a  POLICE  CON- 
STABLE and  a  LOAFER,  bearing  between  them  the 
limp  white-faced  form  of  MRS.  MEGAN,  hatless 
and  with  drowned  hair,  enveloped  in  the  police- 
man's waterproof.  Some  curious  persons  bring 
up  the  rear,  jostling  in  the  doorway,  among  whom 
is  TIMSON  carrying  in  his  fiands  the  policeman's 
dripping  waterproof  leg  pieces. 

FERRAND.  [Starting  forward.]  Monsieur,  it  is  that 
little  girl! 

WELLWYN.  What's  happened?  Constable!    What's 
happened ! 

[The  CONSTABLE  and  LOAFER  have  laid  the  body 
down  on  the  dais;   with  WELLWYN  and  FER- 
RAND they  stand  bending  over  her. 
CONSTABLE.  'Tempted  sooicide,  sir;  but  she  hadn't 
been  in  the  water  'arf  a  minute  when  I  got  hold  of  her. 
[He  bends  lower.]  Can't  understand  her  collapsin'  like 
this. 

WELLWYN.  [Feeling  her  heart.]  I  don't  feel  anything. 
FERRAND.  [In  a  voice  sharpened  by  emotion.]  Let  me 
try,  Monsieur. 


ACT  ra  THE  PIGEON  71 

CONSTABLE.  [Touching  his  arm.]  You  keep  off,  my 
lad. 

WELLWYN.  No,  constable — let  him.  He's  her  friend. 
CONSTABLE.  [Releasing  FERKAND — to  the  LOAFER.] 
Here  you!  Cut  off  for  a  doctor — sharp  now!  [He  pushes 
back  the  curious  persons.]  Now  then,  stand  away  there, 
please — we  can't  have  you  round  the  body.  Keep 
back — Clear  out,  now! 

[He  slowly  moves  them  back,  and  at  last  shepherds 
them  through  the  door  and  shuts  it  on  them, 
TIMSON  being  last. 
FERRAND.  The  rum! 

[WELLWYN  fetches  the  decanter.     With  the  little 
there  is  left  FERRAND  chafes  the  girl's  hands  and 
forehead,   and  pours   some   between  her  lips. 
But  tJiere  is  no  response  from  the  inert  body. 
FERRAND.  Her  soul  is  still  away,  Monsieur! 

[WELLWYN,  seizing  the  decanter,  pours  into  it  tea 

and  boiling  water. 

CONSTABLE.  It's  never  drownin',  sir — her  head  was 
hardly  under;  I  was  on  to  her  like  knife. 

FERRAND.  [Rubbing  her  feet.]  She  has  not  yet  her 
philosophy,  Monsieur;  at  the  beginning  they  often  try. 
If  she  is  dead!  [In  a  voice  of  awed  rapture.]  What  for- 
tune! 

CONSTABLE.  [With  puzzled  sadness.]  True  enough, 
sir — -that!  We'd  just  begun  to  know  'er.  If  she  'as 
been  taken — her  best  friends  couldn't  wish  'er  better. 

WELLWYN.  [Applying  the  decanter  to  her  lips.]  Poor 
little  thing.'  I'll  try  this  hot  tea. 


72  THE  PIGEON  ACT  ra 

FEHRAND.  [Whispering.]  La  mart — le  grand  ami! 
WELLWYN.  Look!    Look    at    her!    She's    eoming 
round! 

[A  faint  tremor  passes  over  MRS.  MEGAN'S  body. 
He  again  applies  the  hot  drink  to  her  mouth. 
She  stirs  and  gulps. 

CONSTABLE.  [With  intense  relief.]  That's  brave! 
Good  lass!  She'll  pick  up  now,  sir. 

[Then,  seeing  that  TIMSON  and  the  curious  persons 
have  again  opened  the  door,  he  drives  them  out, 
and  stands  with  his  back  against  it.  MBS. 
MEGAN  comes  to  herself. 

WELLWYN.  [Sitting  on  the  dais  and  supporting  her — 
as  if  to  a  child.]  There  you  are,  my  dear.  There, 
there — better  now!  That's  right.  Drink  a  little  more 
of  this  tea. 

[Mas.  MEGAN  drinks  from  the  decanter. 
FERRAND.  [Rising.]  Bring  her  to  the  fire,  Monsieur. 
[  They  take  her  to  the  fire  and  seat  her  on  the  little 
stool.     From  the  moment  of  her  restored  anima- 
tion FERRAND  has  resumed  his  air  of  cynical 
detachment,  and  now  stands  apart  with  arms 
folded,  watching. 

WELI.WYN.  Feeling  better,  my  child? 
MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes. 

WELLWYN*  That's  good.  That's  good.  Now,  how 
was  it?  Um? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I  dunno.  [She  shivers.]  1  was  standin' 
here  just  now  when  you  was  talkin',  and  when  I  heard 
'im,  it  cam'  over  me  to  do  it — like. 


ACT  ra  THE  PIGEON  7S 

WELLWYN.  Ah,  yes  7  know. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I  didn't  seem  no  good  to  meself  nor 
any  one.  But  when  I  got  in  the  water,  I  didn't  want 
to  any  more.  It  was  cold  hi  there. 

WELLWYN.  Have  you  been  having  such  a  bad  time 
of  it? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes.  And  listenin'  to  him  upset  me. 
[She  signs  urith  her  head  at  FERRAND.]  I  feel  better  now 
I've  been  in  the  water.  [She  smiles  and  shivers. 

WELLWYN.  There,  there!  Shivery?  Like  to  walk 
up  and  down  a  little? 

[They  begin  walking  together  up  and  down. 

WELLWYN.  Beastly  when  your  head  goes  under? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes.  It  frightened  me.  I  thought  I 
wouldn't  come  up  again. 

WELLWYN.  I  know — sort  of  world  without  end, 
wasn't  it?  What  did  you  think  of,  um? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I  wished  I  'adn't  jumped — an*  I 
thought  of  my  baby — that  died — and — [in  a  rather  sur- 
prised voice]  and  I  thought  of  d-dancin'. 

[Her  mouth  quivers,  her  face  puckers,  she  gives  a 
choke  and  a  little  sob. 

WELLWYN.  [Stopping  and  stroking  her.]  There,  there 
— there! 

[For  a  moment  her  face  is  buried  in  his  sleeve,  then 
she  recovers  herself. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Then  'e  got  hold  o*  me,  an'  pulled  me 
out. 

WELLWYN.  Ah!  what  a  comfort — um? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes.    The  water  got  into  me  mouth. 


74  THE  PIGEON  ACT  m 

[They  walk  again.]  I  wouldn't  have  gone  to  do  it  but 
for  him.  [She  looks  towards  FERRAND.]  His  talk  made 
me  feel  all  funny,  as  if  people  wanted  me  to. 

WELLWYN.  My  dear  child!  Don't  think  such 
things!  As  if  anyone  would ! 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Stolidly.]  I  thought  they  did.  They 
used  to  look  at  me  so  sometimes,  where  I  was  before  I 
ran  away — I  couldn't  stop  there,  you  know. 

WELLWYN.  Too  cooped-up? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes.  No  life  at  all,  it  wasn't — not 
after  sellin'  flowers,  I'd  rather  be  doin'  what  I  am. 

WELLWYN.  Ah!  Well — it's  all  over,  now!  How 
d'youfeel — eh?  Better? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes.     I  feels  all  right  now. 

[She  sits  up  again  on  the  little  stool  before  the  fire. 

WELLWYN.  No  shivers,  and  no  aches;  quite  comfy? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes. 

WELLWYN.  That's  a  blessing.  All  well,  now,  Con- 
stable— thank  you! 

CONSTABLE.  [Who  has  remained  discreetly  apart  at 
the  door — cordially.]  First  rate,  sir!  That's  capital! 
[He  approaches  and  scrutinises  MRS.  MEGAN.]  Right  as 
rain,  eh,  my  girl? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Shrinking  a  little.]  Yes. 

CONSTABLE.  That's  fine.  Then  I  think  perhaps,  for 
'er  sake,  sir,  the  sooner  we  move  on  and  get  her  a  change 
o'  clothin',  the  better. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!  don't  bother  about  that — I'll  send 
round  for  my  daughter — we'll  manage  for  her  here. 


ACT  ra  THE  PIGEON  75 

CoNSTABiiE.  Very  kind  of  you,  I'm  sure,  sir.  But 
[with  embarrassment]  she  seems  all  right.  She'll  get 
every  attention  at  the  station. 

WELLWYN.  But  I  assure  you,  we  don't  mind  at  all; 
we'll  take  the  greatest  care  of  her. 

CONSTABLE.  [Still  more  embarrassed.]  Well,  sir,  of 

course,  I'm  thinkin'  of I'm  afraid  I  can't  depart 

from  the  usual  course. 

WELLWTN.  [Sharply.]  What!  But— oh!  No!  No! 
That'll  be  all  right,  Constable!  That'll  be  all  right! 
I  assure  you. 

CONSTABLE.  [With  more  decision.]  I'll  have  to  charge 
her,  sir. 

WELLWYN.  Good  God !  You  don't  mean  to  say  the 
poor  little  thing  has  got  to  be 

CONSTABLE.  [Consulting  vrith  him.]  Well,  sir,  we 
can't  get  over  the  facts,  can  we?  There  it  is!  You 
know  what  sooicide  amounts  to — it's  an  awkward  job. 

WELLWYN.  [Calming  himself  with  an  effort.]  But  look 

here,  Constable,  as  a  reasonable  man This  poor 

wretched  little  girl — you  know  what  that  life  means 
better  than  anyone!  Why!  It's  to  her  credit  to  try 
and  jump  out  of  it! 

[The  CONSTABLE  shakes  his  head. 

WELLWYN.  You  said  yourself  her  best  friends  couldn't 
wish  her  better!  [Dropping  his  voice  still  more.]  Every- 
body feels  it!  The  Vicar  was  here  a  few  minutes  ago 
saying  the  very  same  thing — the  Vicar,  Constable! 
[The  CONSTABLE  shakes  his  head.]  Ah!  now,  look  here, 
I  know  something  of  her.  Nothing  can  be  done  with 


76  THE  PIGEON  ACT  ra 

her.     We  all  admit  it.     Don't  you  sec?     Well,  then 
hang  it — you  needn't  go  and  make  fools  of  us  all  by 

FERRAND.  Monsieur,  it  is  the  first  of  April. 

CONSTABLE.  [With  a  sharp  glance  at  him.}  Can't 
neglect  me  duty,  sir;  that's  impossible. 

WELLWYN.  Look  here!  She — slipped.  She's  been 
telling  me.  Come,  Constable,  there's  a  good  fellow. 
May  be  the  making  of  her,  this. 

CONSTABLE.  I  quite  appreciate  your  good  'eart,  sir, 
an'  you  make  it  very  'ard  for  me — but,  come  now!  I 
put  it  to  you  as  a  gentleman,  would  you  go  back  on  yer 
duty  if  you  was  me? 

[WELLWTN  raises  his  hat,  and  plunges  his  fingers 
through  and  through  his  hair. 

WELLWYN.  Well!    God    in    heaven!    Of    all    the 

d d   topsy-turvy !     Not  a  soul   in   the  world 

wants  her  alive — and  now  she's  to  be  prosecuted  for 
trying  to  be  where  everyone  wishes  her. 

CONSTABLE.  Come,  sir,  come!    Be  a  man! 

[Throughout  all  this  MRS.  MEGAN  has  sat  stolidly 
before  the  fire,  but  as  FERRAND  suddenly  steps 
forward  she  looks  up  at  him. 

FERRAND.  Do  not  grieve,  Monsieur!    This  will  give 

her  courage.    There  is  nothing  that  gives  more  courage 

than  to  see  the  irony  of  things.  [He  touches  MRS. 

MEGAN'S  shoulder.}  Go,  my  child;  it  will  do  you  good. 

[MRS.  MEGAN  rises,  and  looks  at  him  dazedly. 

CONSTABLE.  [Coming  forward,  and  taking  her  by  the 
hand.}  That's  my  good  lass.  Come  along!  We  won't 
hurt  you. 


ACT  ra  THE  PIGEON  77 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I  don't  want  to  go.  They'll  stare  at 
me. 

CONSTABLE.  [Comforting.]  Not  they!  I'll  see  to 
that. 

WELLWTN.  [Very  upset.]  Take  her  in  a  cab,  Con- 
stable, if  you  must — for  God's  sake!  [He  pulls  out  a 
shilling.]  Here! 

CONSTABLE.  [Taking  the  shilling.]  I  will,  sir,  cer- 
tainly. Don't  think  I  want  to 

WELLWYN.  No,  no,  I  know.     You're  a  good  sort. 

CONSTABLE.  [Comfortable.]  Don't  you  take  on,  sir. 
It's  her  first  try;  they  won't  be  hard  on  'er.  Like  as 
not  only  bind  'er  over  in  her  own  recogs  not  to  do  it 
again.  Come,  my  dear. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Trying  to  free  herself  from  the  police- 
man's cloak.]  I  want  to  take  this  off.     It  looks  so  funny. 
[As  she  speaks  the  door  is  opened  by  ANN;  behind 
whom  is  dimly  seen  the  form  of  old  TIMSON,  still 
heading  the  curious  persons. 

ANN.  [Looking  from  one  to  the  other  in  amaze.]  What 
is  it?  What's  happened?  Daddy! 

FERRAND.  [Out  of  the  silence.]  It  is  nothing,  Ma'- 
moiselle!  She  has  failed  to  drown  herself.  They  run 
her  in  a  little. 

WELLWTN.  Lend  her  your  jacket,  my  dear;  she'll 
catch  her  death. 

[ANN,  feeling  MRS.  MEGAN'S  arm,  strips  off  her 
jacket,  and  helps  her  into  it  without  a  word. 

CONSTABLE.  [Donning  his  cloak.]  Thank  you,  Miss- 
very  good  of  you,  I'm  sure. 


78  THE  PIGEON  ACT  ra 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Mazed.]  It's  warm! 

[She  gives  them  att  a  last  half-smiling  look,  and 

passes  with  the  CONSTABLE  through  the  doorway. 

FERBAND.  That  makes  the  third  of  us,  Monsieur. 

We  are  not  in  luck.     To  wish  us  dead,  it  seems,  is  easier 

than  to  let  us  die. 

[He  looks  at  ANN,  who  is  standing  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  her  father.  WELLWTN  has  taken  from 
his  pocket  a  visiting  card. 

WELLWTN.  [To  FERRAND.]  Here  quick;  take  this, 
run  after  her!  When  they've  done  with  her  tell  her  to 
come  to  us. 

FERRAND.  [Taking  the  card,  and  reading  the  address.] 
"No.  7,  Haven  House,  Flight  Street!"  Rely  on  me, 
Monsieur — I  will  bring  her  myself  to  call  on  you.  An 
revoir,  mon  bon  Monsieur! 

[He  bends  over  WELLWTN'S  hand ;  then,  with  a  bow 
to  ANN  goes  out;  his  tattered  figure  can  be  seen 
through    the    window,    passing    in    the    wind. 
WELLWTN  turns  back  to  the  fire.     The  figure  of 
TIMSON  advances  into  the  doorway,  no  longer 
holding  in  either  hand  a  waterproof  leg-piece. 
TIMSON.  [In  a  croaky  voice.]  Sir! 
WELLWTN.  What — you,  Timson? 
TIMSON.  On  me  larst  legs,  sir.     'Ere!    You  can  see 
'em  for  yerself !    Shawn't  trouble  yer  long. 

WELLWTN.  [After  a  long  and  desperate  stare.]  Not 
now — Timson — not  now!  Take  this!  [He  takes  out 
another  card,  and  hands  it  to  TIMSON.]  Some  other  time. 


ACT  m  THE  PIGEON  79 

TIMSON.  [Taking  the  card.]  Yer  new  address!    You 

are  a  gen'leman.  [He  lurches  slowly  away. 

[ANN  shuts  the  street  door  and  sets  her  back  against 

it.     The  rumble  of  the  approaching  van  is  heard 

outside.     It  ceases. 

ANN.  [In  a  fateful  voice.]  Daddy!  [They  stare  at  each 
other.]  Do  you  know  what  you've  done?  Given  your 
card  to  those  six  rotters. 

WELLWYN.  [With  a  blank  stare.]  Six? 
ANN.  [Staring  round  the  naked  room.]  What  was  the 
good  of  this? 

WELLWYN.  [Following  her  eyes — very  gravely.]  Ann! 
It  is  stronger  than  me. 

[Without  a  word  ANN  opens  the  door,  and  walks 
straight  out.  With  a  heavy  sigh,  WELLWYN 
sinks  down  on  the  little  stool  before  the  fire.  The 
three  humble-men  come  in. 

CHIEF  HUMBLE-MAN.  [In  an  attitude  of  expectation.] 
This  is  the  larst  of  it,  sir. 
WELLWYN.  Oh!  Ah!  yes! 

[He  gives  them  money;  then  something  seems  to 
strike  him,  and  he  exhibits  certain  signs  of  vex- 
ation. Suddenly  he  recovers,  looks  from  one  to 
the  other,  and  then  at  the  tea  things.  A  faint 
smile  comes  on  his  face. 
WELLWYN.  You  can  finish  the  decanter. 

[He  goes  out  in  haste. 

CHIEF  HUMBLE-MAN.  [Clinking  the  coins.]  Third 
time  of  arskin'!  April  fool!  Not  'arf!  Good  old 
pigeon! 


80  THE  PIGEON  ACT  m 

SECOND  HUMBLE-MAN.  'Uman  being,  7  call  'im. 
CHIEF  HUMBLE-MAN.  [Taking  the  three  glasses  from 
the  last  packing-case,  and  pouring  very  equally  into  them.] 
That's  right.    Tell  you  wot,  I'd  never  'a  touched  this 
unless  'e'd  told  me  to,  I  wouldn't — not  with  'im. 

SECOND  HUMBLE-MAN.  Ditto  to  that!    This  is  a  bit 
of  orl  right!  [Raising  his  glass.]  Good  luck! 
THIRD  HUMBLE-MAN.  Same  'ere! 

[Simultaneously  they  place  their  lips  smartly 
against  the  liquor,  and  at  once  let  fall  their  faces 
and  their  glasses. 

CHIEF  HUMBLE-MAN.  [With gr eat sokmnity.]  Crikey! 
Bill!    Tea!  .  .  .    'E's  got  us! 

The  stage  is  blotted  dark. 
Curtain. 


THE   MOB 

A   PLAY   IN    FOUR   ACTS 


PERSONS  OF  THE   PLAY 

STEPHEN  MORE,  Member  of  Parliament 

KATHERINE,  his  wife 

OLIVE,  their  little  daughter 

THE  DEAN  OF  STOUR,  Katherine's  uncle 

GENERAL  SIR  JOHN  JULIAN,  her  father 

CAPTAIN  HUBERT  JULIAN,  her  brother 

HELEN,  his  wife 

EDWARD  MENDIP,  editor  of  "  The  Parthenon" 

ALAN  STEEL,  Moves  secretary 

JAMES  HOME,  architect  ~\ 

CHARLES  SHELDER,  solicitor  I  A  deputation  of  More't 

MARK  WACE,  bookseller  constituents 

WILLIAM  BANNING,  manufacturer    ) 

NURSE  WREFORD 

WREFORD  (her  son),  Hubert's  orderly 

His  SWEETHEART 

THE  FOOTMAN  HENRY 

A  DOORKEEPER 

SOME  BLACK-COATED  GENTLEMEN 

A  STUDENT 

A  GIRL 

A  MOB 

ACT  I.     The  dining-room  of  M ore's  town  house,  evening. 

ACT  11.     The  same,  morning. 

ACT  111.     SCENE  I.  An  alley  at  the  back  of  a  suburban  theatre. 

SCENE  II.  Katherine's  bedroom. 

ACT  IV.     The  dining-room  of  More's  house,  late  afternoon. 
AFTERMATH.     The  corner  of  a  square,  at  dawn. 

Between  ACTS  I  and  II  some  days  elapse. 

Between  ACTS  II  and  III  three  months. 

Between  ACT  III  SCENE  I  and  ACT  III  SCENE  II  no  time. 

Between  ACTS  III  and  IV  a  few  hours. 

Between  ACTS  IV  and  AFTERMATH  an  indefinite  period. 


CAST  OF  THE  ORIGINAL  PRODUCTION 

AT  THE 
GAIETY  THEATRE,  MANCHESTER,  MARCH  30, 1914 

Stephen  More  MILTON  ROSMER 

Katherine  IRENE  ROOKE 

Olive  PHYLLIS  BOURKE 

The  Dean  of  Stour  LEONARD  MUDIE 

General  Sir  John  Julian  HERBERT  LOMAS 

Captain  Hubert  Julian  WILLIAM  HOME 

Helen  HILDA  BRUCE  POTTER 

Edward  Mendip  D.  LEWIN  MANNERING 

Alan  Steel  ERIC  BARBER 

James  Home  ARCHIBALD  McCLEAN 

Charles  Shelder  PERCY  FOSTER 

Mark  Wace  NAPIER  BARRY 

William  Banning  CHARLES  BIBBY 

Nurse  Wreford  MRS.  A.  B.  TAPPING 

Wreford  CECIL  CALVERT 

His  Sweetheart  HILDA  DAVIES 

The  Footman  Henry  BASIL  HOLMES 

A  Doorkeeper  ALFRED  RUSSELL 

A  Student  ELLIS  DEE 

A  Girl  MUBIEL  POPE 


ACT    I 

It  is  half-past  nine  of  a  July  evening.  In  a  dining-room 
lighted  by  sconces,  and  apparelled  in  watt-paper, 
carpet,  and  curtains  of  deep  vivid  blue,  the  large 
French  windows  between  two  columns  are  open  on  to 
a  wide  terrace,  beyond  which  are  seen  trees  in  dark- 
ness, and  distant  shapes  of  lighted  houses.  On  one 
side  is  a  bay  window,  over  which  curtains  are  partly 
drawn.  Opposite  to  this  windmv  is  a  door  leading 
into  the  hall.  At  an  oval  rosewood  table,  set  with 
silver,  flowers,  fruit,  and  wine,  six  people  are  seated 
after  dinner.  Back  to  the  bay  window  is  STEPHEN 
MORE,  the  host,  a  man  of  forty,  with  a  fine-cut  face, 
a  rather  charming  smile,  and  the  eyes  of  an  idealist; 
to  his  right,  SIR  JOHN  JULIAN,  an  old  soldier,  with 
thin  brown  features,  and  grey  moustaches;  to  SIR 
JOHN'S  right,  his  brother,  the  DEAN  OF  STOUR,  a 
tall,  dark,  ascetic-looking  Churchman:  to  his  right 
KATHERINE  is  leaning  forward,  her  elbows  on  the 
table,  and  her  chin  on  her  hands,  staring  across  at 
her  husband;  to  her  right  sits  EDWARD  MENDIP,  a 
pale  man  of  forty-five,  very  bald,  with  a  fine  fore- 
head, and  on  his  clear-cut  lips  a  smile  that  shows 
his  teeth;  between  him  and  MORE  is  HELEN  JULIAN, 
1 


2  THE  MOB  ACT  i 

a  pretty  dark-haired  young  woman,  absorbed  in 
thoughts  of  her  own.  The  voices  are  tuned  to  the 
pitch  of  heated  discussion,  as  the  curtain  rises. 

THE  DEAN.  I  disagree  with  you,  Stephen;  absolutely, 
entirely  disagree. 

MORE.  I  can't  help  it. 

MENDIP.  Remember  a  certain  war,  Stephen!  Were 
your  chivalrous  notions  any  good,  then?  And,  what 
was  winked  at  in  an  obscure  young  Member  is  anath- 
ema for  an  Under  Secretary  of  State.  You  can't 
afford 

MORE.  To  follow  my  conscience?  That's  new, 
Mendip. 

MENDIP.  Idealism  can  be  out  of  place,  my  friend. 

THE  DEAN.  The  Government  is  dealing  here  with  a 
wild  lawless  race,  on  whom  I  must  say  I  think  senti- 
ment is  rather  wasted. 

MORE.  God  made  them,  Dean. 

MENDIP.  I  have  my  doubts. 

THE  DEAN.  They  have  proved  themselves  faithless. 
We  have  the  right  to  chastise. 

MORE.  If  I  hit  a  little  man  in  the  eye,  and  he  hits 
me  back,  have  I  the  right  to  chastise  him? 

SIR  JOHN.  We  didn't  begin  this  business. 

MORE.  What!  With  our  missionaries  and  our 
trading? 

THE  DEAN.  It  is  news  indeed  that  the  work  of  civ- 
ilization may  be  justifiably  met  by  murder.  Have  you 
forgotten  Glaive  and  Morlinson? 


ACT  i  THE  MOB  3 

SIR  JOHN.  Yes.  And  that  poor  fellow  Groome  and 
his  wife? 

MORE.  They  went  into  a  wild  country,  against  the 
feeling  of  the  tribes,  on  their  own  business.  What  has 
the  nation  to  do  with  the  mishaps  of  gamblers? 

SIR  JOHN.  We  can't  stand  by  and  see  our  own  flesh 
and  blood  ill-treated! 

THE  DEAN.  Does  our  rule  bring  blessing — or  does  it 
not,  Stephen? 

MORE.  Sometimes;  but  with  all  my  soul  I  deny  the 
fantastic  superstition  that  our  rule  can  benefit  a  people 
like  this,  a  nation  of  one  race,  as  different  from  our- 
selves as  dark  from  light — in  colour,  religion,  every 
mortal  thing.  We  can  only  pervert  their  natural  in- 
stincts. 

THE  DEAN.  That  to  me  is  an  unintelligible  point  of 
view. 

MENDIP.  Go  into  that  philosophy  of  yours  a  little 
deeper,  Stephen — it  spells  stagnation.  There  are  no 
fixed  stars  on  this  earth.  Nations  can't  let  each  other 
alone. 

MORE.  Big  ones  could  let  little  ones  alone. 

MENDIP.  If  they  could  there'd  be  no  big  ones.  My 
dear  fellow,  we  know  little  nations  are  your  hobby, 
but  surely  office  should  have  toned  you  down. 

SIR  JOHN.  I've  served  my  country  fifty  years,  and 
I  say  she  is  not  in  the  wrong. 

MORE.  I  hope  to  serve  her  fifty,  Sir  John,  and  I 
say  she  is. 


4  THE  MOB  ACT  i 

MENDIP.  There  are  moments  when  such  things  can't 
be  said,  More. 

MORE.  They'll  be  said  by  me  to-night,  Mendip. 

MENDIP.  In  the  House? 

[MORE  nods. 

KATHERINE.  Stephen! 

MENDIP.  Mrs.  More,  you  mustn't  let  him.  It's 
madness. 

MORE.  [Rising]  You  can  tell  people  that  to-morrow, 
Mendip.  Give  it  a  leader  in  The  Parthenon. 

MENDIP.  Political  lunacy!  No  man  in  your  position 
has  a  right  to  fly  out  like  this  at  the  eleventh  hour. 

MORE.  I've  made  no  secret  of  my  feelings  all  along. 
I'm  against  this  war,  and  against  the  annexation  we  all 
know  it  will  lead  to. 

MENDIP.  My  dear  fellow!  Don't  be  so  Quixotic! 
We  shall  have  war  within  the  next  twenty-four  hours, 
and  nothing  you  can  do  will  stop  it. 

HELEN.  Oh!    No! 

MENDIP.  I'm  afraid  so,  Mrs.  Hubert. 

SIR  JOHN.  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  Helen. 

MENDIP.  [To  MORE]  And  you  mean  to  charge  the 
windmill? 

[MORE  nods. 

MENDIP.  C'eat  magnifiquel 

MORE.  I'm  not  out  for  advertisement. 

MENDIP.  You  will  get  it! 

MORE.  Must  speak  the  truth  sometimes,  even  at 
that  risk. 

Sat  JOHN.  It  is  not  the  truth. 


ACT  i  THE  MOB  5 

MENDIP.  The  greater  the  truth  the  greater  the  libel, 
and  the  greater  the  resentment  of  the  person  libelled. 

THE  DEAN.  [Trying  to  bring  matters  to  a  blander 
level]  My  dear  Stephen,  even  if  you  were  right — which 
I  deny — about  the  initial  merits,  there  surely  comes  a 
point  where  the  individual  conscience  must  resign  it- 
self to  the  country's  feeling.  This  has  become  a  ques- 
tion of  national  honour. 

SIR  JOHN.  Well  said,  James! 

MORE.  Nations  are  bad  judges  of  then-  honour,  Dean. 

THE  DEAN.  I  shall  not  follow  you  there. 

MORE.  No.    It's  an  awkward  word. 

KATHERINE.  [Stopping  THE  DEAN]  Uncle  James! 
Please! 

[MoRE  looks  at  her  intently. 

SIR  JOHN.  So  you're  going  to  put  yourself  at  the 
head  of  the  cranks,  ruin  your  career,  and  make  me 
ashamed  that  you're  my  son-in-law  ? 

MORE.  Is  a  man  only  to  hold  beliefs  when  they're 
popular?  You've  stood  up  to  be  shot  at  often  enough, 
Sir  John. 

SIR  JOHN.  Never  by  my  country!  Your  speech  will 
be  in  all  the  foreign  press — trust  'em  for  seizing  on 
anything  against  us.  A  show-up  before  other  coun- 
tries  ! 

MORE.  You  admit  the  show-up? 

SIR  JOHN.  I  do  not,  sir. 

THE  DEAN.  The  position  has  become  impossible. 
The  state  of  things  out  there  must  be  put  an  end  to 
once  for  all!  Come,  Katherine,  back  us  up! 


6  THE  MOB  ACT  i 

MORE.  My  country,  right  or  wrong!  Guilty — still 
my  country! 

MENDIP.  That  begs  the  question. 

KATHERINE  rises.    THE  DEAN,  too,  stands  up. 

THE  DEAN.  [In  a  low  voice]  Quern  Deus  vult  per- 
<Jere ! 

SIR  JOHN.  Unpatriotic! 

MORE.  I'll  have  no  truck  with  tyranny. 

KATHERINE.  Father  doesn't  admit  tyranny.  Nor 
do  any  of  us,  Stephen. 

HUBERT  JULIAN,    a   tall  soldier-like   man,   has 
come  in. 

HELEN.  Hubert! 

She  gets  up  and  goes  to  him,  and  they  talk  to- 
gether near  the  door. 

SIR  JOHN.  What  in  God's  name  is  your  idea?  We've 
forborne  long  enough,  in  all  conscience. 

MORE.  Sir  John,  we  great  Powers  have  got  to  change 
our  ways  in  dealing  with  weaker  nations.  The  very 
dogs  can  give  us  lessons — watch  a  big  dog  with  a  little 
one. 

MENDIP.  No,  no,  these  things  are  not  so  simple  as 
all  that. 

MORE.  There's  no  reason  in  the  world,  Mendip,  why 
the  rules  of  chivalry  should  not  apply  to  nations  at 
least  as  well  as  to — dogs. 

MENDIP.  My  dear  friend,  are  you  to  become  that 
hapless  kind  of  outcast,  a  champion  of  lost  causes? 

MORE.  This  cause  is  not  lost. 

MENDIP.  Right  or  wrong,  as  lost  as  ever  was  cause 


ACT  i  THE  MOB  7 

in  all  this  world.  There  was  never  a  time  when  the 
word  "patriotism"  stirred  mob  sentiment  as  it  does 
now.  'Ware  "Mob,"  Stephen — 'ware  "Mob"! 

MORE.  Because  general  sentiment's  against  me,  I — 
a  public  man — am  to  deny  my  faith?  The  point  is  not 
whether  I'm  right  or  wrong,  Mendip.  but  whether  I'm 
to  sneak  out  of  my  conviction  because  it's  unpopular. 

THE  DEAN.  I'm  afraid  I  must  go.  [To  KATHERINE] 
Good-night,  my  dear!  Ah!  Hubert!  [He  greets  HU- 
BERT] Mr.  Mendip,  I  go  your  way.  Can  I  drop  you? 

MENDIP.  Thank  you.  Good-night,  Mrs.  More.  Stop 
him!  It's  perdition. 

He  and  THE  DEAN  go  out.  KATHERINE  puts  her 
arm  in  HELEN'S,  and  takes  her  out  of  the  room. 
HUBERT  remains  standing  by  the  door. 

SIR  JOHN.  I  knew  your  views  were  extreme  in  many 
ways,  Stephen,  but  I  never  thought  the  husband  of 
my  daughter  would  be  a  Peace-at-any-price  man! 

MORE.  I  am  not!  But  I  prefer  to  fight  some  one 
my  own  size. 

SIR  JOHN.  Well!  I  can  only  hope  to  God  you'll 
come  to  your  senses  before  you  commit  the  folly  of 
this  speech.  I  must  get  back  to  the  War  Office. 
Good-night,  Hubert. 

HUBERT.  Good-night,  Father. 

SIR  JOHN  goes  out.  HUBERT  stands  motionless, 
dejected. 

HUBERT.  We've  got  our  orders. 

MORE.  What?    When  d'you  sail? 

HUBERT.  At  once. 


8  THE  MOB  ACT  i 

MORE.  Poor  Helen! 

HUBERT.  Not  married  a  year;  pretty  bad  luck! 
[MORE  touches  his  arm  in  sympathy]  Well!  We've  got 
to  put  feelings  in  our  pockets.  Look  here,  Stephen — 
don't  make  that  speech!  Think  of  Katherine — with 
the  Dad  at  the  War  Office,  and  me  going  out,  and 
Ralph  and  old  George  out  there  already!  You  can't 
trust  your  tongue  when  you're  hot  about  a  thing. 

MORE.  I  must  speak,  Hubert. 

HUBERT.  No,  no!  Bottle  yourself  up  for  to-night. 
The  next  few  hours  '11  see  it  begin.  [MORE  turns  from 
him]  If  you  don't  care  whether  you  mess  up  your  own 
career — don't  tear  Katherine  in  two! 

MORE.  You're  not  shirking  your  duty  because  of 
your  wife. 

HUBERT.  Well!  You're  riding  for  a  fall,  and  a  god- 
less mucker  it'll  be.  This'll  be  no  picnic.  We  shall 
get  some  nasty  knocks  out  there.  Wait  and  see  the 
feeling  here  when  we've  had  a  force  or  two  cut  up  in 
those  mountains.  It's  awful  country.  Those  fellows 
have  got  modern  arms,  and  are  jolly  good  fighters. 
Do  drop  it,  Stephen! 

MORE.  Must  risk  something,  sometimes,  Hubert — • 
even  in  my  profession ! 

.  [As  he  speaks,  KATHERINE  comes  in. 

HUBERT.  But  it's  hopeless,  my  dear  chap — abso- 
lutely. 

MORE  turns  to  the  window,  HUBERT  to  his  sister 
— then  with  a  gesture  towards  MORE,  as  though 
to  leave  the  matter  to  her,  he  goes  out. 


ACT  i  THE  MOB  9 

KATHERINE.  Stephen!  Are  you  really  going  to 
speak?  [He  nods]  I  ask  you  not. 

MOBE.  You  know  my  feeling. 

KATHERINE.  But  it's  our  own  country.  We  can't 
stand  apart  from  it.  You  won't  stop  anything — only 
make  people  hate  you.  I  can't  bear  that. 

MORE.  I  tell  you,  Kit,  some  one  must  raise  a  voice. 
Two  or  three  reverses — certain  to  come — and  the  whole 
country  will  go  wild.  And  one  more  little  nation  will 
cease  to  live. 

KATHERINE.  If  you  believe  in  your  country,  you 
must  believe  that  the  more  land  and  power  she  has,  the 
better  for  the  world. 

MORE.  Is  that  your  faith? 

KATHERINE.  Yes. 

MORE.  I  respect  it;  I  even  understand  it;  but — I 
can't  hold  it. 

KATHERINE.  But,  Stephen,  your  speech  will  be  a 
rallying  cry  to  all  the  cranks,  and  every  one  who  has 
a  spite  against  the  country.  They'll  make  you  their 
figurehead.  [MORE  smiles]  They  will.  Your  chance  of 
the  Cabinet  will  go — you  may  even  have  to  resign  your 
seat. 

MORE.  Dogs  will  bark.   These  things  soon  blow  over. 

KATHERINE.  No,  no!  If  you  once  begin  a  thing, 
you  always  go  on;  and  what  earthly  good? 

MORE.  History  won't  say:  "And  this  they  did  with- 
out a  single  protest  from  their  public  men!" 

KATHERINE.  There  are  plenty  who 

MORE.  Poets? 


10  THE  MOB  ACT  i 

KATHERINE.  Do  you  remember  that  day  on  our 
honeymoon,  going  up  Ben  Lawers?  You  were  lying 
on  your  face  in  the  heather;  you  said  it  was  like  kiss- 
ing a  loved  woman.  There  was  a  lark  singing — you 
said  that  was  the  voice  of  one's  worship.  The  hills 
were  very  blue;  that's  why  we  had  blue  here,  because 
it  was  the  best  dress  of  our  country.  You  do  love  her. 
MORE.  Love  her! 

KATHERINE.  You'd  have  done  this  for  me — then. 
MORE.  Would  you  have  asked  me — then,  Kit? 
KATHERINE.  Yes.     The  country's  our  country !    Oh! 
Stephen,  think  what  it'll  be  like  for  me — with  Hubert 
and  the  other  boys  out  there.     And  poor  Helen,  and 
Father!     I  beg  you  not  to  make  this  speech. 

MORE.  Kit!  This  isn't  fair.  Do  you  want  me  to 
feel  myself  a  cur? 

KATHERINE.  [Breathless]  I — I — almost  feel  you'll  be 
a  cur  to  do  it  [She  looks  at  him,  frightened  by  her  own 
words.  Then,  as  the  footman  HENRY  has  come  in  to 
clear  the  table — very  low]  I  ask  you  not! 

[He  does  not  answer,  and  she  goes  out. 

MORE  [To  the  servant]  Later,  please,  Henry,  later! 

The  servant  retires.     MORE  still  stands  looking 

down  at  the  dining-table;  then  putting  his  hand 

to  his  throat,  as  if  to  free  it  from  the  grip  of  his 

collar,  he  pours  out  a  glass  of  water,  and  drinks 

it  off.     In  the  street,  outside  the  bay  window, 

two  street  musicians,  a  harp  and  a  violin,  have 

taken  up  their  stand,  and  after  some  twangs  and 

scrapes,  break  into  music.     MORE  goes  towards 


ACT  i  THE  MOB  11 

the  sound,  and  draws  aside  one  curtain.     After 
a  moment,  he  returns  to  the  table,  and  takes  up 
the  notes  of  the  speech.     He  is  in  an  agony  of 
indecision. 
MORE.  A  cur! 

He  seems  about  to  tear  his  notes  across.  Then, 
changing  his  mind,  turns  them  over  and  over, 
muttering.  His  voice  gradually  grows  louder, 
titt  he  is  declaiming  to  the  empty  room  the 
peroration  of  his  speech. 

MORE.  .  .  .  We  have  arrogated  to  our  land  the 
title  Champion  of  Freedom,  Foe  of  Oppression.  Is 
that  indeed  a  bygone  glory?  Is  it  not  worth  some 
sacrifice  of  our  pettier  dignity,  to  avoid  laying  another 
stone  upon  its  grave;  to  avoid  placing  before  the  search- 
light eyes  of  History  the  spectacle  of  yet  one  more  piece 
of  national  cynicism?  We  are  about  to  force  our  will 
and  our  dominion  on  a  race  that  has  always  been  free, 
that  loves  its  country,  and  its  independence,  as  much 
as  ever  we  love  ours.  I  cannot  sit  silent  to-night  and 
see  this  begin.  As  we  are  tender  of  our  own  land,  so 
we  should  be  of  the  lands  of  others.  I  love  my  coun- 
try. It  is  because  I  love  my  country  that  I  raise  my 
voice.  Warlike  in  spirit  these  people  may  be — but 
they  have  no  chance  against  ourselves.  And  war  on 
such,  however  agreeable  to  the  blind  moment,  is  odious 
to  the  future.  The  great  heart  of  mankind  ever  beats 
in  sense  and  sympathy  with  the  weaker.  It  is  against 
this  great  heart  of  mankind  that  we  are  going.  In  the 
name  of  Justice  and  Civilization  we  pursue  this  policy; 


12  THE  MOB  ACT  i 

but  by  Justice  we  shall  hereafter  be  judged,  and  by 
Civilization — condemned. 

While  he  is  speaking,  a  little  figure  has  flown 
along  the  terrace  outside,  in  the  direction  of 
the  music,  but  has  stopped  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  and  stands  in  the  open  window,  listening 
— a  dark-haired,  dark-eyed  child,  in  a  blue 
dressing-gown  caught  up  in  her  hand.  The 
street  musicians,  having  reached  the  end  of  a 
tune,  are  silent. 

In  the  intensity  of  MORE'S  feeling,  a  wine-glass, 
gripped  too  strongly,  breaks  and  falls  in  pieces 
on  to  a  finger-bowl.     The  child  starts  forward 
into  the  room. 
MORE.  Olive! 

OLIVE.  Who  were  you  speaking  to,  Daddy? 
MORE.  [Staring  at  her]  The  wind,  sweetheart! 
OLIVE.  There  isn't  any! 
MORE.  What  blew  you  down,  then? 
OLIVE.  [Mysteriously]  The    music.     Did    the    wind 
break  the  wine-glass,  or  did  it  come  in  two  in  your 
hand? 

MORE.  Now    my    sprite!    Upstairs    again,    before 
Nurse  catches  you.      Fly!    Fly! 

OLIVE.  Oh!  no,  Daddy!    [With  confidential  fervour] 
It  feels  like  things  to-night! 
MORE.  You're  right  there! 

OLIVE.  [Pulling  him  down  to  her,  and  whispering]  I 
must  get  back  again  in  secret.     H'sh! 

She  suddenly  runs  and  wraps  herself  into  one  of 


ACT  i  THE  MOB  13 

the  curtains  of  the  bay  ivindow.     A  young  man 
enters,  with  a  note  in  his  hand. 
MORE.  Hallo,  Steel! 

[The  street  musicians  have  again  begun  to  play. 
STEEL.  From  Sir  John — by  special  messenger  from 
the  War  Office. 
MOKE.  [Reading  the  note]  "The  ball  is  opened." 

He  stands  brooding  over  the  note,  and  STEEL  looks 
at  him  anxiously.     He  is  a  dark,  sallow,  thin- 
faced  young  man,  with  the  eyes  of  one  who  can 
attach  himself  to  people,  and  suffer  with  them. 
STEEL.  I'm   glad   it's   begun,   sir.    It   would   have 
been  an  awful  pity  to  have  made  that  speech. 
MORE.  You  too,  Steel! 

STEEL.  I  mean,  if  it's  actually  started 

MORE.  [Tearing  the  note  across]  Yes.  Keep  that  to 
yourself. 

STEEL.  Do  you  want  me  any  more? 

MORE  takes  from  his  breast  pocket  some  papers, 

and  pitches  them  down  on  the  bureau. 
MORE.  Answer  these. 

STEEL.  [Going  to  the  bureau]  Fetherby  was  simply 
sickening.  [He  begins  to  write.  Struggle  has  begun 
again  in  MORE]  Not  the  faintest  recognition  that  there 
are  two  sides  to  it. 

MORE  gives  him  a  quick  look,  goes  quietly  to  the 
dining-table  and  picks  up  his  sheaf  of  notes. 
Hiding  them  with  his  sleeve,  he  goes  back  to 
the  window,  where  he  again  stands  hesitating. 


14  THE  MOB  ACT  i 

STEEL.  Chief  gem:  [Imitating]  "We  must  show  Im- 
pudence at  last  that  Dignity  is  not  asleep!" 

MORE.  [Moving  out  on  to  the  terrace]  Nice  quiet 
night! 

STELL.  This  to  the  Cottage  Hospital — shall  I  say 
you  will  preside? 
MORE.  No. 

STEEL  writes;  then  looking  up  and  seeing  that 
MORE  is  no  longer  there,  he  goes  to  the  window, 
looks  to  right  and  left,  returns  to  the  bureau, 
and  is  about  to  sit  down  again  when  a  thought 
seems  to  strike  him  with  consternation.  He 
goes  again  to  the  window.  Then  snatching  up 
his  hat,  he  passes  hurriedly  out  along  the  terrace. 
As  he  vanishes,  KATHERINE  comes  in  from  the 
hall.  After  looking  out  on  to  the  terrace  she  goes 
to  the  bay  window;  stands  there  listening;  then 
comes  restlessly  back  into  the  room.  OLIVE, 
creeping  quietly  from  behind  the  curtain,  clasps 
her  round  the  waist. 

KATHERINE.  O  my  darling!    How  you  startled  me! 
What  are  you  doing  down  here,  you  wicked  little  sinner! 
OLIVE.  I  explained  all  that  to  Daddy.     We  needn't 
go  into  it  again,  need  we? 

KATHERINE.  Where  is  Daddy? 
OLIVE.  Gone. 
KATHERINE.  When? 

OLIVE.  Oh!  only  just,  and  Mr.  Steel  went  after 
him  like  a  rabbit.  [The  music  stops]  They  haven't 
been  paid,  you  know. 


ACT  i  THE  MOB  15 

KATHERINE.  Now,  go  up  at  once.    I  can't  think 
how  you  got  down  here. 

OLTVE.  I  can.   [Wheedling]  If  you  pay  them,  Mum- 
my, they're  sure  to  play  another. 
KATHEBINE.  Well,  give  them  that!    One  more  only. 
She  gives  OLIVE  a  coin,  who  runs  with  it  to  the 
bay  window,  opens  the  side  casement,  and  calls 
to  the  musicians. 

OLIVE.  Catch,  please!    And  would  you  play  just 
one  more? 

She  returns  from  the  window,   and  seeing  her 
mother  lost  in  thought,  rubs  herself  against  her. 
OLIVE.  Have  you  got  an  ache? 
KATHERINE.  Right  through  me,  darling! 
OLIVE.  Oh! 

[The  musicians  strike  up  a  dance. 
OLIVE.  Oh!  Mummy!    I  must  just  dance! 

She  kicks  off  her  little  blue  shoes,  and  begins 
dancing.     While    she    is    capering    HUBERT 
comes  in  from  the  haU.    He  stands  watching 
his  little  niece  for  a  minute,  and  KATHERINE 
looks  at  him. 
HUBERT.  Stephen  gone! 
KATHERINE.  Yes — stop,  Olive! 
OLIVE.  Are  you  good  at  my  sort  of  dancing,  Uncle? 
HUBERT.  Yes,  chick — awfully! 
KATHERINE.  Now,  Olive! 

The  musicians  have  suddenly  broken  off  in  the 
middle  of  a  bar.  From  the  street  comes  the 
noise  of  distant  shouting. 


16  THE  MOB  ACT  i 

OLIVE.  Listen,  Uncle!    Isn't  it  a  particular  noise? 
HUBERT  and  KATHERINE  listen  with  all  their 
might,  and  OLIVE  stares  at  their  faces.    HUBERT 
goes  to  the  window.     The  sound  comes  nearer. 
The  shouted  words  are  faintly  heard:  "Pyper-'— 
war — our  force  crosses  frontier — sharp  fightin' 
—pyper." 
KATHERINE.  [Breathless]  Yes!    It  is. 

The  street  cry  is  heard  again  in  two  distant  voices 
coming  from  different  directions:  "War — pyper 
— sharp  fightin'  on  the  frontier — pyper." 
KATHERINE.  Shut  out  those  ghouls! 

As  HUBERT  closes  the  window,  NURSE  WREFORD 
comes  in  from  the  hall.  She  is  an  elderly 
woman  endowed  with  a  motherly  grimness. 
She  fixes  OLIVE  with  her  eye,  then  suddenly 
becomes  conscious  of  the  street  cry. 
NURSE.  Oh!  don't  say  it's  begun. 

[HUBERT  comes  from  the  window. 
NURSE.  Is  the  regiment  to  go,  Mr.  Hubert? 
HUBERT.  Yes,  Nanny. 
NURSE.  Oh,  dear!     My  boy! 

KATHERINE.  [Signing  to  where  OLIVE  stands  with  wide 
eyes]  Nurse! 

HUBERT.  I'll  look  after  him,  Nurse. 
NURSE.  And  him  keepin'  company.     And  you  not 
married  a  year.     Ah!  Mr.  Hubert,  now  do  'ee  take 
care;  you  and  him's  both  so  rash. 
HUBERT.  Not  I,  Nurse! 

NURSE  looks  long  into  his  face,  then  lifts  her 
finger,  and  beckons  OLIVE. 


ACT  i  THE  MOB  17 

OLIVE.  [Perceiving  new  sensations  before  her,  goes 
quietly]  Good-night,  Uncle!  Nanny,  d'you  know  why 
I  was  obliged  to  come  down?  [In  a  fervent  whisper]  It's 
a  secret!  [As  she  passes  with  NURSE  out  into  the  hall, 
her  voice  is  heard  saying,  "Do  tell  me  all  about  the 
war."] 

HUBERT.  [Smothering  emotion  under  a  blunt  manner] 
We  sail  on  Friday,  Eat.  Be  good  to  Helen,  old  girl. 

KATHERINE.  Oh!  I  wish !  Why — can't — wom- 
en— fight? 

HUBERT.  Yes,  it's  bad  for  you,  with  Stephen  taking 

it  like  this.     But  he'll  come  round  now  it's  once  begun. 

KATHERINE  shakes  her  head,  then  goes  suddenly 

up  to  him,  and  throws  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

It  is  as  if  all  the  feeling  pent  up  in  her  were 

finding  vent  in  this  hug. 

The  door  from  tJie  hall  is  opened,  and  SIR  JOHN'S 
voice  is  heard  outside:  "All  right,  I'll  find  her" 
KATHERINE.  Father! 

[SiR  JOHN  comes  in. 

SIR  JOHN.  Stephen  get  my  note?  I  sent  it  over  the 
moment  I  got  to  the  War  Office. 

KATHERINE.  I  expect  so.  [Seeing  the  torn  note  on  the 
table}  Yes. 

SIR  JOHN.  They're  shouting  the  news  now.     Thank 
God,  I  stopped  that  crazy  speech  of  his  in  time. 
KATHERINE.  Have  you  stopped  it? 
SIR  JOHN.  What!    He  wouldn't  be  such  a  sublime 
donkey? 


18  THE  MOB  ACT  i 

KATHERINE.  I  think  that  is  just  what  he  might  be. 
[Going  to  the  window]  We  shall  know  soon. 

SIR  JOHN,  after  staring  at  her,  goes  up  to  HUBERT. 
SIR  JOHN.  Keep  a  good  heart,  my  boy.    The  coun- 
try's first.  [They  exchange  a  hand-squeeze.] 

KATHERINE  backs  away  from  the  window.    STEEL 
has  appeared  there  from  the  terrace,  breathless 
from  running. 
STEEL.  Mr.  More  back? 
KATHERINE.  No.    Has  he  spoken? 
STEEL.  Yes. 
KATHERINE.  Against? 
STEEL.  Yes. 
SIR  JOHN.  What?    After! 

SIR  JOHN  stands  rigid,  then  turns  and  marches 
straight  out  into  the  hall.     At   a  sign  from 
KATHERINE,  HUBERT  follows  him. 
KATHERINE.  Yes,  Mr.  Steel? 

STEEL.  [Stitt  breathless  and  agitated]  We  were  here 
— he  slipped  away  from  me  somehow.  He  must  have 
gone  straight  down  to  the  House.  I  ran  over,  but 
when  I  got  in  under  the  Gallery  he  was  speaking  al- 
ready. They  expected  something — I  never  heard  it 
so  still  there.  He  gripped  them  from  the  first  word — 
deadly — every  syllable.  It  got  some  of  those  fellows. 
But  all  the  time,  under  the  silence  you  could  feel  a — 
sort  of — of — current  going  round.  And  then  Sherratt 
— I  think  it  was — began  it,  and  you  saw  the  anger 
rising  in  them;  but  he  kept  them  down — his  quietness! 
The  feeling!  I've  never  seen  anything  like  it  there. 


ACT  i  THE  MOB  19 

Then  there  was  a  whisper  all  over  the  House  that 
fighting  had  begun.  And  the  whole  thing  broke  out — 
a  regular  riot — as  if  they  could  have  killed  him.  Some 
one  tried  to  drag  him  down  by  the  coat-tails,  but  he 
shook  him  off,  and  went  on.  Then  he  stopped  dead 
and  walked  out,  and  the  noise  dropped  like  a  stone. 
The  whole  thing  didn't  last  five  minutes.  It  was  fine, 
Mrs.  More;  like — like  lava;  he  was  the  only  cool  per- 
son there.  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  anything — 
it  was  grand! 

MORE  has  appeared  on  the  terrace,  behind  STEEL. 
KATHERINE.  Good-night,  Mr.  Steel. 
STEEL.  [Startled]  Oh!— Good-night! 

He  goes  out  into  the  hall.  KATHERINE  picks  up 
OLIVE'S  shoes,  and  stands  clasping  them  to  her 
breast.  MORE  comes  in. 

KATHERINE.  You've  cleared  your  conscience,  then! 
I  didn't  think  you'd  hurt  me  so. 

MORE  does  not  answer,  still  living  in  the  scene  he 
has  gone  through,  and  KATHERINE  goes  a  little 
nearer  to  him. 

KATHERINE.  I'm  with  the  country,  heart  and  soul, 
Stephen.     I  warn  you. 

While  they  stand  in  silence,  facing  each  other,  the 

footman,  HENRY,  enters  from  the  hall. 
FOOTMAN.  These  notes,  sir,  from  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. 

KATHERINE.  [Taking  them]  You  can  have  the  room 
directly. 

[The  FOOTMAN  goes  out. 


20  THE  MOB  ACT  i 

MORE.  Open  them! 

KATHERINE  opens  one  after  the  other,  and  lets 

them  fatt  on  the  table. 
MORE.  Well? 

KATHERINE.  What  you  might  expect.  Three  of 
your  best  friends.  It's  begun. 

MORE.  'Ware  Mob!  [He  gives  a  laugh]  I  must  write 
to  the  Chief. 

KATHERINE  makes  an  impulsive  movement  to- 
wards him;  then  quietly  goes  to  the  bureau,  sits 
down  and  takes  up  a  pen. 

KATHERINE.  Let  me  make  the  rough  draft.  [She 
waits]  Yes? 

MORE.  [Dictating] 

"July  15th. 

"DEAR  SIR  CHARLES, — After  my  speech  to-night, 
embodying  my  most  unalterable  convictions  [KATHER- 
INE turns  and  looks  up  at  him,  but  he  is  staring  straight 
before  him,  and  with  a  little  movement  of  despair  she  goes 
on  writing]  I  have  no  alternative  but  to  place  the  resig- 
nation of  my  Under-Secretaryship  in  your  hands.  My 
view,  my  faith  in  this  matter  may  be  wrong — but  I 
am  surely  right  to  keep  the  flag  of  my  faith  flying.  I 
imagine  I  need  not  enlarge  on  the  reasons " 

THE   CURTAIN   FALLS. 


ACT    II 

Before  noon  a  few  days  later.  The  open  windows  of  the 
dining-room  let  in  the  sunlight.  On  the  table  a  num- 
ber of  newspapers  are  littered,  HELEN  is  sitting 
there,  staring  straight  before  her.  A  newspaper  boy 
runs  by  outside  calling  out  his  wares.  At  the  sound 
she  gets  up  and  goes  out  on  to  the  terrace.  HUBERT 
enters  from  the  hall.  He  goes  at  once  to  the  terrace, 
and  draws  HELEN  into  the  room. 

HELEN.  Is  it  true — what  they're  shouting? 
HUBERT.  Yes.     Worse  than  we  thought.     They  got 
our  men  all  crumpled  up  in  the  Pass — guns  helpless. 
Ghastly  beginning. 
HELEN.  Oh,  Hubert! 
HUBERT.  My  dearest  girl! 

HELEN  puts  her  face  up  to  his.  He  kisses  her. 
Then  she  turns  quickly  into  the  bay  window. 
The  door  from  the  hall  has  been  opened,  and 
the  footman,  HENRY,  comes  in,  preceding 
WREFORD  and  his  sweetheart. 

HENRY.  Just  wait  here,  will  you,  while  I  let  Mrs. 
More  know.  [Catching  sight  of  HUBERT]  Beg  pardon, 
sir! 

HUBERT.  All    right,    Henry.    [Off-hand]    Ah!    Wre- 
ford!  [The  FOOTMAN  withdraws]  So  you've  brought  her 
21 


22  THE  MOB  ACT  n 

round.  That's  good!  My  sister '11  look  after  her — 
don't  you  worry!  Got  everything  packed?  Three 
o'clock  sharp. 

WREFORD.  [A  broad-faced  soldier,  dressed  in  khaki 
with  a  certain  look  of  dry  humour,  now  dimmed — speaking 
with  a  West  Country  burr]  That's  right,  zurr;  all's 
ready. 

HELEN  has  come  out  of  the  window,  and  is  quietly 
looking  at  WREFORD  and  the  girl  standing  there 
so  awkwardly. 

HELEN.  [Quietly]  Take  care  of  him,  Wreford. 
HUBERT.  We'll  take  care  of  each  other,  won't  we, 
Wreford? 

HELEN.  How  long  have  you  been  engaged? 
THE  GIRL.  [A   pretty,   indeterminate  young   woman] 
Six  months.  [She  sobs  suddenly. 

HELEN.  Ah!    He'll  soon  be  safe  back. 
WREFORD.  I'll  owe  'em  for  this.  [In  a  low  voice  to 
her]  Don't  'ee  now!    Don't  'ee! 
HELEN.  No!    Don't  cry,  please! 

She  stands  struggling  with  her  own  lips,  then  goes 
out  on  to  the  terrace,  HUBERT  following.     WRE- 
FORD and  his  girl  remain  where  they  were, 
strange  and  awkward,  she  muffling  her  sobs. 
WREFORD.  Don't  'ee  go  on  like  that,  Nance;       I'll 
'ave  to  take  you  'ome.     That's  silly,  now  we've  a-come. 
I  might  be  dead  and  buried  by  the  fuss  you're  makin'. 
You've  a-drove  the  lady  away.     See! 

She  regains  control  of  herself  as  the  door  is  opened 
and  KATHERINE  appears,  accompanied  by 


ACT  n  THE  MOB  23 

OLIVE,  who  regards  WREFORD  with  awe  and 
curiosity,  and  by  NURSE,  whose  eyes  are  red, 
but  whose  manner  is  composed. 

KATHERESTE.  My  brother  told  me;  so  glad  you've 
brought  her. 

WREFORD.  Ye — as,  M'.    She  feels  me  goin',  a  bit. 

KATHERINE.  Yes,  yes!  Still,  it's  for  the  country, 
isn't  it? 

THE  GIRL.  That's  what  Wreford  keeps  tellin'  me. 
He've  got  to  go — so  it's  no  use  upsettin'  'im.  And  of 
course  I  keep  tellin'  him  I  shall  be  all  right. 

NURSE.  [Whose  eyes  never  leave  her  son's  face]  And 
so  you  will. 

THE  GIRL.  Wreford  thought  it  'd  comfort  him  to 
know  you  were  interested  in  me.  'E's  so  'ot-headed 
I'm  sure  somethin'  '11  come  to  'im. 

KATHERINE.  We've  all  got  some  one  going.  Are 
you  coming  to  the  docks?  We  must  send  them  off 
in  good  spirits,  you  know. 

OLIVE.  Perhaps  he'll  get  a  medal. 

KATHERINE.  Olive! 

NURSE.  You  wouldn't  like  for  him  to  be  hanging 
back,  one  of  them  anti-patriot,  stop-the-war  ones. 

KATHEHENE.  [Quickly]  Let  me  see — I  have  your 
address.  [Holding  out  her  hand  to  WREFORD]  We'll 
look  after  her. 

OLIVE.  [In  a  loud  whisper]  Shall  I  lend  him  my 
toffee? 

KATHERINE.  If  you  like,  dear.  [To  WREFORD]  Now 


24  THE  MOB  ACT  n 

take  care  of  my  brother  and  yourself.,  and  we'll  take 
care  other. 
WBEFOKD.  Ye — as,  M'. 

He  then  looks  rather  uoretchedly  at  his  girl,  as  if 
the  interview  had  not  done  so  much  for  him  as 
he  had  hoped.  She  -drops  a  little  curtsey. 
WBEFORD  salutes. 

OLIVE.  [Who  has  taken  from  the  bureau  a  packet, 
places  it  in  his  hand]  It's  very  nourishing! 
WREFORD.  Thank  you,  miss. 

Then,  nudging  each  other,  and  entangled  in  their 
feelings   and  the   conventions,   they   pass   out, 
shepherded  by  NURSE. 
KATHERINE.  Poor  things! 

OLIVE.  What  is  an  anti-patriot,  stop-the-war  one, 
Mummy? 

KATHERINE.  [Taking  up  a  newspaper]  Just  a  stupid 
name,  dear — don't  chatter! 

OLIVE.  But  tell  me  just  one  weeny  thing! 
KATHERINE.  Well? 
OLIVE.  Is  Daddy  one? 

KATHERINE.  Olive!  How  much  do  you  know  about 
this  war? 

OLIVE.  They  won't  obey  us  properly.  So  we  have 
to  beat  them,  and  take  away  their  country.  We  shall, 
shan't  we? 

KATHERINE.  Yes.  But  Daddy  doesn't  want  us  to; 
he  doesn't  think  it  fair,  and  he's  been  saying  so.  Peo- 
ple are  very  angry  with  him. 


ACT  n  THE  MOB  25 

OLIVE.  Why  isn't  it  fair?  I  suppose  we're  littler 
than  them. 

KATHERINE.  No. 

OLIVE.  Oh!  in  history  we  always  are.  And  we 
always  win.  That's  why  I  like  history.  Which  are 
you  for,  Mummy — us  or  them? 

KATHERINE.  Us. 

OLIVE.  Then  I  shall  have  to  be.  It's  a  pity  we're 
not  on  the  same  side  as  Daddy.  [KATHERINE  shudders] 
Will  they  hurt  him  for  not  taking  our  side? 

KATHERINE.  I  expect  they  will,  Olive. 

OLIVE.  Then  we  shall  have  to  be  extra  nice  to  him. 

KATHERINE.  If  we  can. 

OLIVE.  7  can;  I  feel  like  it. 

HELEN  and  HUBERT  have  returned  along  the  ter- 
race. Seeing  KATHERINE  and  the  child,  HELEN 
passes  on,  but  HUBERT  comes  in  at  the  French 
window. 

OLIVE.  [Catching  sight  of  him — softly]  Is  Uncle 
Hubert  going  to  the  front  to-day?  [KATHERINE  nods] 
But  not  grandfather? 

KATHERINE.  No,  dear. 

OLIVE.  That's  lucky  for  them,  isn't  it? 

HUBERT  comes  in.  The  presence  of  the  child  gives 
him  self-control. 

HUBERT.  Well,  old  girl,  it's  good-bye.  [To  OLIVE] 
What  shall  I  bring  you  back,  chick? 

OLIVE.  Are  there  shops  at  the  front?  I  thought  it 
was  dangerous. 

HUBERT.  Not  a  bit. 


26  THE  MOB  ACT  n 

OLIVE.  [Disillusioned]  Oh! 

KATHERINE.  Now,  darling,  give  Uncle  a  good  hug. 
Under  cover  of  OLIVE'S  hug,  KATHERINE  repairs 

her  courage. 

KATHERINE.  The  Dad  and  I'll  be  with  you  all  in 
spirit.     Good-bye,  old  boy! 

They  do  not  dare  to  kiss,  and  HUBERT  goes  out 
very  stiff  and  straight,  in  the  doorway  passing 
STEEL,  of  whom  he  takes  no  notice.    STEEL 
hesitates,  and  would  go  away. 
KATHERINE.  Come  in,  Mr.  Steel. 
STEEL.  The  deputation  from  Toulmin  ought  to  be 
here,  Mrs.  More.     It's  twelve. 

OLIVE.  [Having  made  a  little  ball  of  newspaper — slyly} 
Mr.  Steel,  catch! 

[She  throws,  and  STEEL  catches  it  in  silence. 
KATHERINE.  Go  upstairs,  won't  you,  darling? 
OLIVE.  Mayn't  I  read   in  the  window,   Mummy? 
Then  I  shall  see  if  any  soldiers  pass. 

KATHERINE.  No.    You  can  go  out  on  the  terrace  a 
little,  and  then  you  must  go  up. 

[OLIVE  goes  reluctantly  out  on  to  the  terrace. 
STEEL.  Awful  news  this  morning  of  that  Pass! 
And  have  you  seen  these?  [Reading  from  the  newspaper] 
"We  will  have  no  truck  with  the  jargon  of  the  degen- 
erate who  vilifies  his  country  at  such  a  moment.  The 
Member  for  Toulmin  has  earned  for  himself  the  con- 
tempt of  all  virile  patriots."  [He  takes  up  a  second 
journal]  "There  is  a  certain  type  of  public  man  who, 
even  at  his  own  expense,  cannot  resist  the  itch  to 


ACT  n  THE  MOB  27 

advertise  himself.     We  would,  at  moments  of  national 

crisis,  muzzle  such  persons,  as  we  muzzle  dogs  that 

we  suspect  of  incipient  rabies.  .  .  ."    They're  in  full 

cry  after  him! 

KATHERINE.  I  mind  much  more  all  the  creatures 

who  are  always  flinging  mud  at  the  country  making 

him  their  hero  suddenly!    You  know  what's  in  his 

mind? 

STEEL.  Oh!    We  must  get  him  to  give  up  that  idea 

of  lecturing  everywhere  against  the  war,  Mrs.  More; 

we  simply  must. 

KATHERINE.  [Listening]  The  deputation's  come.    Go 

and  fetch  him,  Mr.  Steel.     He'll  be  in  his  room,  at  the 

House. 

STEEL  goes  out,  and  KATHERINE  stands  at  bay. 
In  a  moment  he  opens  the  door  again,  to  usher 
in  the  deputation;  then  retires.  The  four  gentle- 
men have  entered  as  if  conscious  of  grave  issues. 
The  first  and  most  picturesque  is  JAMES  HOME, 
a  thin,  tall,  grey-bearded  man,  with  plentiful 
hair,  contradictious  eyebrows,  and  the  half-sky, 
half-bold  manners,  alternately  rude  and  over- 
polite,  of  one  not  accustomed  to  Society,  yet 
secretly  much  taken  with  himself.  He  is  dressed 
in  rough  tweeds,  with  a  red  silk  tie  slung  through 
a  ring,  and  is  closely  followed  by  MARK  WAGE, 
a  waxy,  round-faced  man  of  middle-age,  with 
sleek  dark  hair,  traces  of  whisker,  and  a  smooth 
way  of  continually  rubbing  his  hands  together, 
as  if  selling  something  to  an  esteemed  customer. 


28  THE  MOB  ACT  n 

He  is  rather  stout,  wears  dark  clothes,  with 
a  large  gold  chain.  Following  him  comes 
CHARLES  SHELDEB,  a  lawyer  of  fifty,  with  a 
bald  egg-shaped  head,  and  gold  pince-nez.  He 
has  little  side  whiskers,  a  leathery,  yellowish 
skin,  a  rather  kind  but  watchful  and  dubious 
face,  and  when  he  speaks  seems  to  have  a  plum 
in  his  mouth,  which  arises  from  the  pre- 
ponderance of  his  shaven  upper  lip.  Last  of 
the  deputation  comes  WILLIAM  BANNING,  an 
energetic-looking,  square-shouldered,  self-made 
country-man,  between  fifty  and  sixty,  with  grey 
moustaches,  ruddy  face,  and  lively  brown  eyes. 

KATHEBINE.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Home? 

HOME.  [Bowing  rather  extravagantly  over  her  hand,  as 
if  to  show  his  independence  of  women's  influence]  Mrs. 
More!  We  hardly  expected This  is  an  honour. 

WAGE.  How  do  you  do,  Ma'am? 

KATHEBINE.  And  you,  Mr.  Wace? 

WAGE.  Thank  you,  Ma'am,  well  indeed! 

SHELDEB.  How  d'you  do,  Mrs.  More? 

KATHEBINE.  Very  well,  thank  you,  Mr.  Shelder. 

BANNING.  [Speaking  with  a  rather  broad  country 
accent]  This  is  but  a  poor  occasion,  Ma'am. 

KATHEBINE.  Yes,  Mr.  Banning.  Do  sit  down,  gen- 
tlemen. 

Seeing  that  they  will  not  settle  down  while  she  is 
standing,  she  sits  at  the  table.  They  gradually 
take  their  seats.  Each  member  of  the  deputa- 
tion in  his  own  way  is  severely  hanging  back 


ACT  n  THE  MOB  29 

from  any  mention  of  the  subject  in  hand;   and 
KATHERINE  as  intent  on  drawing  them  to  it. 

KATHERINE.  My  husband  will  be  here  in  two  min- 
utes. He's  only  over  at  the  House. 

SHELDER.  [Who  is  of  higher  standing  and  education 
than  the  others]  Charming  position — this,  Mrs.  More! 
So  near  the — er — Centre  of — Gravity — um? 

KATHERINE.  I  read  the  account  of  your  second  meet- 
ing at  Toulmin. 

BANNING.  It's  bad,  Mrs.  More — bad.  There's  no 
disguising  it.  That  speech  was  moon-summer  mad- 
ness— Ah!  it  was!  Take  a  lot  of  explaining  away. 
Why  did  you  let  him,  now?  Why  did  you?  Not 
your  views,  I'm  sure! 

He  looks  at  her,  but  for  answer  she  only  compresses 
her  lips. 

BANNING.  I  tell  you  what  hit  me — what's  hit  the 
whole  constituency — and  that's  his  knowing  we  were 
over  the  frontier,  fighting  already,  when  he  made  it. 

KATHERINE.  What  difference  does  it  make  if  he  did 
know? 

HOME.  Hitting  below  the  belt — I  should  have 
thought — you'll  pardon  me! 

BANNING.  Till  war's  begun,  Mrs.  More,  you're  en- 
titled to  say  what  you  like,  no  doubt — but  after! 
That's  going  against  your  country.  Ah!  his  speech 
was  strong,  you  know — his  speech  was  strong. 

KATHERINE.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  speak. 
It  was  just  an  accident  the  news  coming  then. 

[A  silence. 


SO  THE  MOB  ACT  ii 

BANNING.  Well,  that's  true,  I  suppose.    What  we 
really  want  is  to  make  sure  he  won't  break  out  again. 
HOME.  Very  high-minded,  his  views  of  course — but, 
some  consideration  for  the  common  herd.     You'll  par- 
don me! 

SHELDER.  We've  come  with  the  friendliest  feelings, 
Mrs.  More — but,  you  know,  it  won't  do,  this  sort  of 
thing! 

WACE.  We  shall  be  able  to  smooth  him  down.  Oh! 
surely. 

BANNING.  We'd  be  best  perhaps  not  to  mention 
about  his  knowing  that  fighting  had  begun. 

As  he  speaks,  MORE  enters  through  the  French 

windows.     They  all  rise. 
MORE.  Good-morning,  gentlemen. 

He  comes  down  to  the  table,  but  does  not  offer  to 

shake  hands. 

BANNING.  Well,  Mr.  More?  You've  made  a  woeful 
mistake,  sir;  I  tell  you  to  your  face. 

MORE.  As  everybody  else  does,  Banning.  Sit  down 
again,  please. 

They  gradually  resume  their  seats,  and  MORE 
sits   in   KATHERINE'S    chair.     She   alone   re- 
mains standing  leaning  against  the  corner  of 
the  bay  window,  watching  their  faces. 
BANNING.  You've  seen  the  morning's  telegrams?    I 
tell  you,  Mr.  More — another  reverse  like  that,  and  the 
flood  will  sweep  you  clean  away.     And  I'll  not  blame 
it.    It's  only  flesh  and  blood. 


ACT  n  THE  MOB  31 

MORE.  Allow  for  the  flesh  and  blood  in  me,  too, 
please.  When  I  spoke  the  other  night  it  was  not  with- 
out a  certain  feeling  here.  [He  touches  his  heart. 

BANNING.  But  your  attitude's  so  sudden — you'd  not 
been  going  that  length  when  you  were  down  with  us 
in  May. 

MORE.  Do  me  the  justice  to  remember  that  even 
then  I  was  against  our  policy.  It  cost  me  three  weeks' 
hard  struggle  to  make  up  my  mind  to  that  speech. 
One  comes  slowly  to  these  things,  Banning. 

SHELDER.  Case  of  conscience? 

MORE.  Such  things  have  happened,  Shelder,  even 
in  politics. 

SHELDER.  You  see,  our  ideals  are  naturally  low — 
how  different  from  yours! 

[MORE  smiles. 

KATHERINE,  who  has  drawn  near  her  husband, 
moves  back  again,  as  if  relieved  at  this  gleam  of 
geniality.  WAGE  rubs  his  hands. 

BANNING.  There's  one  thing  you  forget,  sir.  We 
send  you  to  Parliament,  representing  us;  but  you 
couldn't  find  six  men  in  the  whole  constituency  that 
would  have  bidden  you  to  make  that  speech. 

MORE.  I'm  sorry;  but  I  can't  help  my  convictions, 
Banning. 

SHELDER.  What  was  it  the  prophet  was  without  in 
his  own  country? 

BANNING.  Ah!  but  we're  not  funning,  Mr.  More. 
I've  never  known  feeling  run  so  high.  The  sentiment 
of  both  meetings  was  dead  against  you.  We've  had 


32  TtfE   MOB  ACT  n 

showers  of  letters  to  headquarters.  Some  from  very 
good  men — very  warm  friends  of  yours. 

SHELDER.  Come  now!  It's  not  too  late.  Let's  go 
back  and  tell  them  you  won't  do  it  again. 

MORE.  Muzzling  order? 

BANNING.  [Bluntly]  That's  about  it. 

MORE.  Give  up  my  principles  to  save  my  Parlia- 
mentary skin.  Then,  indeed,  they  might  call  me  a 
degenerate!  [He  touches  the  newspapers  on  the  table. 
KATHERINE  makes  an  abrupt  and  painful  move- 
ment, then  remains  as  still  as  before,  leaning 
against  the  corner  of  the  window-seat. 

BANNING.  Well,  well!  I  know.  But  we  don't  ask 
you  to  take  your  words  back — we  only  want  discretion 
in  the  future. 

MORE.  Conspiracy  of  silence!  And  have  it  said 
that  a  mob  of  newspapers  have  hounded  me  to  it. 

BANNING.  They  won't  say  that  of  you. 

SHELDER.  My  dear  More,  aren't  you  rather  drop- 
ping to  our  level?  With  your  principles  you  ought 
not  to  care  two  straws  what  people  say. 

MORE.  But  I  do.  I  can't  betray  the  dignity  and 
courage  of  public  men.  If  popular  opinion  is  to  con- 
trol the  utterances  of  her  politicians,  then  good-bye 
indeed  to  this  country! 

BANNING.  Come  now!  I  won't  say  that  your  views 
weren't  sound  enough  before  the  fighting  began.  I've 
never  liked  our  policy  out  there.  But  our  blood's 
being  spilled;  and  that  makes  all  the  difference.  I 
don't  suppose  they'd  want  me  exactly,  but  I'd  be  ready 


ACT  n  THE  MOB  33 

to  go  myself.  We'd  all  of  us  be  ready.  And  we  can't 
have  the  man  that  represents  us  talking  wild,  until 
we've  licked  these  fellows.  That's  it  in  a  nutshell. 

MORE.  I  understand  your  feeling,  Banning.  I  ten- 
der you  my  resignation.  I  can't  and  won't  hold  on 
where  I'm  not  wanted. 

BANNING.  No,  no,  no!  Don't  do  that!  [His  accent 
broader  and  broader]  You've  'ad  your  say,  and  there  it 
is.  Coom  now!  You've  been  our  Member  nine  years, 
in  rain  and  shine. 

SHELDER.  We  want  to  keep  you,  More.  Come! 
Give  us  your  promise — that's  a  good  man! 

MORE.  I  don't  make  cheap  promises.  You  ask  too 
much. 

[There  is  silence,  and  they  all  look  at  MORE. 

SHELDER.  There  are  very  excellent  reasons  for  the 
Government's  policy. 

MORE.  There  are  always  excellent  reasons  for  having 
your  way  with  the  weak. 

SHELDER.  My  dear  More,  how  can  you  get  up  any 
enthusiasm  for  those  cattle-lifting  ruffians? 

MORE.  Better  lift  cattle  than  lift  freedom. 

SHELDER.  Well,  all  we'll  ask  is  that  you  shouldn't 
go  about  the  country,  saying  so. 

MORE.  But  that  is  just  what  I  must  do. 

[Again  they  all  look  at  MORE  in  consternation. 

HOME.  Not  down  our  way,  you'll  pardon  me. 

WAGE.  Really — really,  sir 

SHELDEH.  The  time  of  crusades  is  past,  More. 

MORE.  Is  it? 


34  THE  MOB  ACT  n 

BANNING.  Ah!  no,  but  we  don't  want  to  part  with 
you,  Mr.  More.  It's  a  bitter  thing,  this,  after  three 
elections.  Look  at  the  'uman  side  of  it!  To  speak  ill 
of  your  country  when  there's  been  a  disaster  like  this 
terrible  business  in  the  Pass.  There's  your  own  wife. 
I  see  her  brother's  regiment's  to  start  this  very  after- 
noon. Come  now — how  must  she  feel? 

MORE   breaks   away   to   the   bay   vrindow.     The 
DEPUTATION  exchange  glances. 

MORE.  [Turning]  To  try  to  muzzle  me  like  this — is 
going  too  far. 

BANNING.  We  just  want  to  put  you  out  of  tempta- 
tion. 

MORE.  I've  held  my  seat  with  you  in  all  weathers 
for  nine  years.  You've  all  been  bricks  to  me.  My 
heart's  in  my  work,  Banning;  I'm  not  eager  to  undergo 
political  eclipse  at  forty. 

SHELDER.  Just  so — we  don't  want  to  see  you  in  that 
quandary. 

BANNING.  It'd  be  no  friendliness  to  give  you  a  wrong 
impression  of  the  state  of  feeling.  Silence — till  the 
bitterness  is  overpast;  there's  naught  else  for  it,  Mr. 
More,  while  you  feel  as  you  do.  That  tongue  of 
yours!  Come!  You  owe  us  something.  You're  a 
big  man;  it's  the  big  view  you  ought  to  take. 

MORE.  I  am  trying  to. 

HOME.  And  what  precisely  is  your  view — you'll  par- 
don my  asking? 

MORE.  [Turning  on  him]  Mr.  Home — a  great  coun- 
try such  as  ours — is  trustee  for  the  highest  sentiments 


ACT  n  THE  MOB  35 

of  mankind.     Do  these  few  outrages  justify  us  in  steal- 
ing the  freedom  of  this  little  people? 

BANNING.  Steal  their  freedom!  That's  rather  run- 
ning before  the  hounds. 

MORE.  Ah,  Banning!  now  we  come  to  it.  In  your 
hearts  you're  none  of  you  for  that — neither  by  force 
nor  fraud.  And  yet  you  all  know  that  we've  gone  in 
there  to  stay,  as  we've  gone  into  other  lands — as  all 
we  big  Powers  go  into  other  lands,  when  they're  little 
and  weak.  The  Prime  Minister's  words  the  other 
night  were  these:  "If  we  are  forced  to  spend  this  blood 
and  money  now,  we  must  never  again  be  forced." 
What  does  that  mean  but  swallowing  this  country? 

SHELDER.  Well,  and  quite  frankly,  it'd  be  no  bad 
thing. 

HOME.  We  don't  want  their  wretched  country — 
we're  forced. 

MORE.  We  are  not  forced. 

SHELDER.  My  dear  More,  what  is  civilization  but 
the  logical,  inevitable  swallowing  up  of  the  lower  by 
the  higher  types  of  man?  And  what  else  will  it  be 
here? 

MORE.  We  shall  not  agree  there,  Shelder;  and  we 
might  argue  it  all  day.  But  the  point  is,  not  whether 
you  or  I  are  right — the  point  is:  What  is  a  man  who 
holds  a  faith  with  all  his  heart  to  do?  Please  tell  me. 

[There  is  a  silence. 

BANNING.  [Simply]  I  was  just  thinkin'  of  those  poor 
fellows  in  the  Pass. 

MORE.  I  can  see  them,  as  well  as  you,  Banning 


36  THE  MOB  ACT  n 

But,  imagine!  Up  in  our  own  country — the  Black 
Valley — twelve  hundred  foreign  devils  dead  and  dying 
— the  crows  busy  over  them — in  our  own  country,  our 
own  valley — ours — ours — violated.  Would  you  care 
about  "the  poor  fellows"  in  that  Pass? — Invading, 
stealing  dogs!  Kill  them — kill  them!  You  would, 
and  I  would,  too! 

The  passion  of  those  words  touches  and  grips  as 
no  arguments  could;  and  they  are  silent. 

MORE.  Well!  What's  the  difference  out  there? 
I'm  not  so  inhuman  as  not  to  want  to  see  this  disaster 
in  the  Pass  wiped  out.  But  once  that's  done,  in  spite 
of  my  affection  for  you;  my  amb'itions,  and  they're 
not  few;  [Very  low}  in  spite  of  my  own  wife's  feeling,  I 
must  be  free  to  raise  my  voice  against  this  war. 

BANNING.  [Speaking  slowly,  consulting  the  others,  as  it 
were,  with  his  eyes]  Mr.  More,  there's  no  man  I  respect 
more  than  yourself.  I  can't  tell  what  they'll  say  down 
there  when  we  go  back;  but  I,  for  one,  don't  feel  it  in 
me  to  take  a  hand  in  pressing  you  farther  against  your 
faith. 

SHELDER.  We  don't  deny  that — that  you  have  a 
case  of  sorts. 

WAGE.  No — surely. 

SHELDER.  A  man  should  be  free,  I  suppose,  to  hold 
his  own  opinions. 

MORE.  Thank  you,  Shelder. 

BANNING.  Well!    well!    We  must  take  you  as  you 

are;  but  it's  a  rare  pity;  there'll  be  a  lot  of  trouble 

His  eyes  light  on  HOME,  who  is  leaning  forward 


ACT  n  THE  MOB  37 

with  hand  raised  to  his  ear,  listening.  Very 
faint,  from  far  in  the  distance,  there  is  heard  a 
skirling  sound.  All  become  conscious  of  it,  all 
listen. 

HOME.  [Suddenly]  Bagpipes! 

The  figure  of  OLIVE  flies  past  the  window,  out  on 
the  terrace.  KATHERINE  turns,  as  if  to  follow 
her. 

SHELDER.  Highlanders!  [He  rises. 

KATHERINE  goes  quickly  out  on  to  the  terrace. 
One  by  one  they  all  follow  to  the  window.  One 
by  one  go  out  on  to  the  terrace,  till  MORE  is  left 
alone.  He  turns  to  the  bay  window.  The  music 
is  swelling,  coming  nearer.  MORE  leaves  the 
vrindow — his  face  distorted  by  the  strife  of  his 
emotions.  He  paces  the  room,  taking,  in  some 
sort,  the  rhythm  of  tJie  march. 
Slowly  the  music  dies  away  in  the  distance  to  a 
drum-tap  and  the  tramp  of  a  company.  MORE 
stops  at  the  table,  covering  his  eyes  with  his 
hands. 

The  DEPUTATION  troop  back  across  the  terrace, 
and  come  in  at  the  French  windows.  Their 
faces  and  manners  have  quite  changed.  KATH- 
ERINE follows  them  as  far  as  the  window. 

HOME.  [In  a  strange,  almost  threatening  voice]  It 
won't  do,  Mr.  More.  Give  us  your  word,  to  hold  your 
peace! 

SHELDER.  Come!    More. 

WAGE.  Yes,  indeed — indeed! 


THE  MOB  ACT  n 


BANNING.  We  must  have  it. 

MORE.  [Without  lifting  his  head]  I — I- 


The  drum-tap  of  a  regiment  marching  is  heard. 
BANNING.  Can  you  hear  that  go  by,  man — wher? 
your  country's  just  been  struck? 

Now  comes  the  scuffle  and  mutter  of  a  following 
crowd. 

MORE.  I  give  you 

Then,  sharp  and  clear  above  all  other  sounds,  the 
words:  "  Give  the  beggars  hell,  boys ! "  "  Wipe 
your  feet  on  their  dirty  country!"  "Don't 
leave  'em  a  gory  acre! "  And  a  burst  of  hoarse 
cheering. 

MORE.  [Flinging  up  his  head]  That's  reality!    By 
Heaven!    No! 
KATHERINE.  Oh! 
SHELDER.  In  that  case,  we'll  go. 
BANNING.  You  mean  it?    You  lose  us,  then! 

[MORE  bows. 

HOME.  Good  riddance  [Venomously — his  eyes  darting 
between  MORE  and  KATHERINE]!  Go  and  stump  the 
country!  Find  out  what  they  think  of  you!  You'll 
pardon  me! 

One  by  one,  vnthout  a  word,  only  BANNING  looking 

back,  they  pass  out  into  the  hall.     MORE  sits 

down  at  the  table  before  the  pile  of  newspapers. 

KATHERINE,    in    the    window,    never    moves. 

OLIVE  comes  along  the  terrace  to  her  mother. 

OLIVE.  They  were  nice  ones!    Such  a  lot  of  dirty 

people  following,  and  some  quite  clean,  Mummy.    [Con- 


ACT  n  THE  MOB  39 

sciousfrom  her  mother's  face  that  something  is  very  wrong, 
she  looks  at  her  father,  and  then  steals  up  to  his  side} 
Uncle  Hubert's  gone,  Daddy;  and  Auntie  Helen's  cry- 
ing. And — look  at  Mummy! 

[MORE  raises  his  head  and  looks. 
OLIVE.  Do  be  on  our  side!    Do! 

She  rubs  her  cheek  against  his.  Feeling  that  he 
does  not  rub  his  cheek  against  hers,  OLIVE 
stands  away,  and  looks  from  him  to  her  mother  in 
wonder. 

THE  CURTAIN  FALLS 


ACT  III 

SCENE  I 

A.  cobble-stoned  alley,  without  pavement,  behind  a  sub- 
urban theatre.  The  tall,  blind,  dingy-yellowish  wall 
of  the  building  is  plastered  with  the  tattered  rem- 
nants of  old  entertainment  bills,  and  the  words:  "  To 
Let,"  and  with  several  torn,  and  one  still  virgin 
placard,  containing  this  announcement:  "Stop-the- 
War  Meeting,  October  1st.  Addresses  by  STEPHEN 
MOBE,  Esq.,  and  others."  The  alley  is  plentifully 
strewn  with  refuse  and  scraps  of  paper.  Three 
stone  steps,  inset,  lead  to  the  stage  door.  It  is  a 
dark  night,  and  a  street  lamp  close  to  the  wall  throws 
aU  the  light  there  is.  A  faint,  confused  murmur, 
as  of  distant  hooting  is  heard.  Suddenly  a  boy 
comes  running,  then  two  rough  girls  hurry  past  in 
the  direction  of  the  sound;  and  the  alley  is  again 
deserted.  The  stage  door  opens,  and  a  doorkeeper, 
poking  his  head  out,  looks  up  and  down.  He  with- 
draws, but  in  a  second  reappears,  preceding  three 
black-coated  gentlemen. 

DOORKEEPER.  It's   all   clear.     You   can   get   away 
down  here,  gentlemen.     Keep  to  the  left,  then  sharp 
to  the  right,  round  the  corner. 
41 


42  THE  MOB  ACT  ra 

THE  THREE.  [Dusting  themselves,  and  settling  their 
ties]  Thanks,  very  much!    Thanks! 

FIRST  BLACK-COATED  GENTLEMAN.  Where's  More? 
Isn't  he  coming? 

They  are  joined  by  a  fourth  black-coated  GENTLE- 
MAN. 

FOURTH  BLACK-COATED  GENTLEMAN.    Just  behind. 
[To  the  DOORKEEPER]  Thanks. 

They   hurry   away.     The   DOORKEEPER   retires. 
Another  boy  runs  past.     Then  the  door  opens 
again.     STEEL  and  MORE  come  out. 
MORE  stands  hesitating  on  the  steps;   then  turns 

as  if  to  go  back. 

STEEL.  Come  along,  sir,  come! 
MORE.  It  sticks  in  my  gizzard,  Steel. 
STEEL.  {Running  his  arm  through  MORE'S,  and  almost 
dragging  him  down  the  steps]  You  owe  it  to  the  theatre 
people.  [MORE  still  hesitates]  We  might  be  penned  in 
there  another  hour;    you   told   Mrs.   More  half -past 
ten;    it'll  only  make  her  anxious.     And  she  hasn't 
seen  you  for  six  weeks. 

MORE.  All  right;  don't  dislocate  my  arm. 

They  move  down  the  steps,  and  away  to  the  left, 
as  a  boy  comes  running  down  the  alley.  Sight- 
ing MORE,  he  stops  dead,  spins  round,  and 
crying  shrilly  :  "'Ere  'e  is!  That's  'im! 
'Ere  'e  is!"  he  bolts  back  in  the  direction  whence 
he  came. 
STEEL.  Quick,  sir,  quick! 


ACT  ra  THE  MOB  43 

MORE.  That  is  the  end  of  the  limit,  as  the  foreign 
ambassador  remarked. 

STEEL.  [Putting   him   back   towards   the  door]  Well! 
come  inside  again,  anyway! 

A  number  of  men  and  boys,  and  a  few  young 
girls,  are  trooping  quickly  from  the  left.  A 
motley  crew,  out  for  excitement;  loafers,  arti- 
sans, navvies  ; '  girls,  rough  or  dubious.  All 
in  the  mood  of  hunters,  and  having  tasted 
blood.  They  gather  round  the  steps  displaying 
the  momentary  irresolution  and  curiosity  that 
follows  on  a  new  development  of  any  chase. 
MORE,  on  the  bottom  step,  turns  and  eyes 
them. 

A  GIRL  [At  the  edge]  Which  is  'im!    The  old  'un  or 
the  young? 

[MORE  turns,  and  mounts  the  remaining  steps. 
TALL  YOUTH.  [With  lank  black  hair  under  a  bowler 
hat]  You  blasted  traitor! 

MORE  faces  round  at  the  volley  of  jeering  that 
follows;  the  chorus  of  booing  swells,  then  grad- 
ually dies,  as  if  they  realized  that  they  were 
spoiling  their  own  sport. 
A  ROUGH  GIRL.  Don't  frighten  the  poor  feller! 

[A  girl  beside  her  utters  a  shrill  laugh. 
STEEL.  [Tugging  at  MORE'S  arm]  Come  along,  sir. 
MORE.  [Shaking  his  arm  free — to  the  crowd]  Well, 
what  do  you  want? 
A  VOICE.  Speech. 
MORE.  Indeed!    That's  new. 


44  THE  MOB 


ACT  m 


BOUGH  VOICE.  [At  the  back  of  the  crowd]  Look  at  his 
white  liver.  You  can  see  it  in  his  face. 

A  BIG  NAVVY.  [In  front]  Shut  it!  Give  'im  a 
chanst! 

TALL  YOUTH.  Silence  for  the  blasted  traitor? 

A  youth  plays  the  concertina;   there  is  laughter, 

then  an  abrupt  silence. 
MORE.  You  shall  have  it  in  a  nutshell! 
A  SHOPBOY.  [Flinging  a  walnut-shell  which  strikes 
MORE  on  the  shoulder]  Here  y'are! 

MORE.  Go  home,  and  think!  If  foreigners  invaded 
us,  wouldn't  you  be  fighting  tooth  and  nail  like  those 
tribesmen,  out  there? 

TALL  YOUTH.  Treacherous  dogs!  Why  don't  they 
come  out  in  the  open? 

MORE.  They  fight  the  best  way  they  can. 

A  burst  of  hooting  is  led  by  a  soldier  in  khaki  on 

the  outskirts. 

MORE.  My  friend  there  in  khaki  led  that  hooting. 
I've  never  said  a  word  against  our  soldiers.  It's  the 
Government  I  condemn  for  putting  them  to  this,  and 
the  Press  for  hounding  on  the  Government,  and  all  of 
you  for  being  led  by  the  nose  to  do  what  none  of  you 
would  do,  left  to  yourselves. 

The  TALL  YOUTH  leads  a  somewhat  unspontane- 

ous  burst  of  execration. 

MORE.  I  say  not  one  of  you  would  go  for  a  weaker 
man. 

VOICES  IN  THE  CROWD. 

ROUGH  VOICE.  Tork  sense! 


ACT  m  THE  MOB  45 

GIRL'S  VOICE.  He's  gittin'  at  you^. 
TALL  YOUTH'S  VOICE.  Shiny  skunk! 

A  NAVVY.  [Suddenly  shouldering  forward]  Look 
'ere,  Mister!  Don't  you  come  gaffin'  to  those  who've 
got  mates  out  there,  or  it'll  be  the  worse  for  you — you 
go  'ome! 

COCKNEY  VOICE.  And  git  your  wife  to  put  cotton- 
wool in  yer  ears. 

[A  spurt  of  laughter. 

A  FRIENDLY  VOICE.  [From  the  outskirts]  Shame! 
there!  Bravo,  More!  Keep  it  up! 

[.4  scuffle  drowns  this  cry. 

MORE.  [With  vehemence]  Stop  that!  Stop  that! 
You ! 

TALL  YOUTH.  Traitor! 

AN  ARTISAN.  Who  black-legged? 

MIDDLE-AGED  MAN.  Ought  to  be  shot — backin'  his 
country's  enemies! 

MORE.  Those  tribesmen  are  defending  their  homes. 

Two  VOICES.  Hear!  hear! 

[They  are  hustled  into  silence. 

TALL  YOUTH.  Wind-bag! 

MORE.  [With  sudden  passion]  Defending  their  homes! 
Not  mobbing  unarmed  men! 

[STEEL  again  pulls  at  his  arm. 

ROUGH.  Shut  it,  or  we'll  do  you  in! 

MORE.  [Recovering  his  coolness]  Ah!  Do  me  in  by 
all  means!  You'd  deal  such  a  blow  at  cowardly  mobs 
as  wouldn't  be  forgotten  in  your  time. 

STEEL.  For  God's  sake,  sir! 


46  THE  MOB  ACT  m 

MORE.  [Shaking  off  his  touch]  Well! 

There  is  an  ugly  rush,  checked  by  the  fall  of  the 
foremost  figures,  thrown  too  suddenly  against 
the  bottom  step.     The  crowd  recoils. 
There  is  a  momentary  lull,   and  MORE  stares 

steadily  down  at  them. 

COCKNEY  VOICE.  Don't  'e  speak  well!    What  elo- 
quence! 

Two  or  three  nutshells  and  a  piece  of  orange-peel 
strike  MORE  across  the  face.  He  takes  no 
notice. 

BOUGH  VOICE.  That's  it!     Give  'im  some  encourage- 
ment. 

The  jeering  laughter  is  changed  to  anger  by  the 

contemptuous  smile  on  MoRE's/ace. 
A  TALL  YOUTH.  Traitor! 
A  VOICE.  Don't  stand  there  like  a  stuck  pig. 
A  ROUGH.  Let's  'ave  'im  dahn  off  that! 

Under  cover  of  the  applause  that  greets  this,  he 
strikes  MORE  across  the  legs  with  a  belt.     STEEL 
starts  forward.     MORE,  flinging  out  his  arm, 
turns  him  back,  and  resumes  his  tranquil  star- 
ing at  the  crowd,  in  whom  the  sense  of  being 
foiled  by  this  silence  is  fast  turning  to  rage. 
THE  CROWD.  Speak   up,   or   get   down!    Get   off! 
Get  away,  there — or  we'll  make  you!     Go  on! 

[MORE  remains  immovable. 

A  YOUTH.  [In  a  lull  of  disconcertion]  I'll  make  'im 
speak!    See! 


ACT    HI 


THE  MOB  47 


He   darts  forward   and   spits,   defiling   MORE'S 
hand.     MOKE  jerks  it  up  as  if  it  had  been 
stung,  then  stands  as  still  as  ever.     A  spurt  of 
laughter  dies  into  a  shiver  of  repugnance  at  the 
action.     The  shame  is  fanned  again  to  fury  by 
the  sight  of  MORE'S  scornful  face. 
TALL  YOUTH.  [Out  of  murmuring]   Shift!  or  you'll 
get  it! 

A  VOICE.  Enough  of  your  ugly  mug! 
A  ROUGH.  Give  'im  one! 

Two  flung  stones  strike  MORE.     He  staggers  and 

nearly  falls,  then  rights  himself. 
A  GIRL'S  VOICE.  Shame! 
FRIENDLY  VOICE.  Bravo,  More!    Stick  to  it! 
A  ROUGH.  Give  'im  another! 
A  VOICE.  No! 

A  GIRL'S  VOICE.  Let   'im  alone!    Come  on,  Billy, 
this  ain't  no  fun! 

Still  looking  up  at  MORE,  the  whole  crowd  falls 
into  an  uneasy  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
shuffling  of  feet.  Then  the  BIG  NAVVY  in  the 
front  rank  turns  and  elbows  his  way  out  to  the 
edge  of  the  crowd. 
THE  NAVVY.  Let  'im  be! 

With   half-sullen    and    half-shamefaced   acquies- 
cence  the   crowd   breaks   up   and   drifts   back 
whence  it  came,  till  the  alley  is  nearly  empty. 
MORE.  [As  if  coming  to,  out  of  a  trance — wiping  his 
hand  and  dusting  his  coat]  Well,  Steel! 


48  THE   MOB  ACT  m 

And  followed  by  STEEL,  he  descends  the  steps  and 
moves  away.  Two  policemen  pass  glancing  up 
at  the  broken  glass.  One  of  them  stops  and 
makes  a  note. 

THE   CURTAIN   FALLS. 


SCENE  H 

The  window-end  of  KATHERINE'S  bedroom,  panelled  in 
cream-coloured  wood.  The  light  from  four  candles 
is  falling  on  KATHERINE,  who  is  sitting  before  the 
silver  mirror  of  an  old  oak  dressing-table,  brushing 
her  hair.  A  door,  on  the  left,  stands  ajar.  An  oak 
chair  against  the  wall  close  to  a  recessed  window  is 
all  the  other  furniture.  Through  this  window  the 
blue  night  is  seen,  where  a  mist  is  rolled  out  flat 
amongst  trees,  so  that  only  dark  clumps  of  boughs 
show  here  and  there,  beneath  a  moonlit  sky.  As  the 
curtain  rises,  KATHERINE,  with  brush  arrested,  is 
listening.  She  begins  again  brushing  her  hair,  then 
stops,  and  taking  a  packet  of  letters  from  a  drawer 
of  her  dressing-table,  reads.  Through  the  just  open 
door  behind  her  comes  the  voice  of  OLIVE. 

OLIVE.  Mummy!  I'm  awake! 

But  KATHERINE  goes  on  reading;  and  OLIVE 
steals  into  the  room  in  her  nightgown. 

OLIVE.  [At  KATHERINE'S  elbow — examining  her  watch 
on  its  stand]  It's  fourteen  minutes  to  eleven. 

KATHERINE.  Olive,  Olive! 


ACT  ra  THE  MOB  49 

OLIVE.  I  just  wanted  to  see  the  time.  I  never  can 
go  to  sleep  if  I  try — it's  quite  helpless,  you  know.  Is 
there  a  victory  yet?  [KATHERINE  shakes  her  head} 
Oh!  I  prayed  extra  special  for  one  in  the  evening 
papers.  [Straying  round  her  mother]  Hasn't  Daddy 
come? 

KATHERINE.  Not  yet. 

OLIVE.  Are  you  waiting  for  him?  [Burying  her  face 
in  her  mother's  hair]  Your  hair  is  nice,  Mummy.  It's 
particular  to-night. 

KATHERINE  lets  fall  her  brush,  and  looks  at  her 
almost  in  alarm. 

OLIVE.  How  long  has  Daddy  been  away? 

KATHEHINE.  Six  weeks. 

OLIVE.  It  seems  about  a  hundred  years,  doesn't  it? 
Has  he  been  making  speeches  all  the  time? 

KATHEHINE.  Yes. 

OLIVE.  To-night,  too? 

KATHERINE.  Yes. 

OLIVE.  The  night  that  man  was  here  whose  head's 
too  bald  for  anything — oh!  Mummy,  you  know — the 
one  who  cleans  his  teeth  so  termendously — I  heard 
Daddy  making  a  speech  to  the  wind.  It  broke  a 
wine-glass.  His  speeches  must  be  good  ones,  mustn't 
they! 

KATHERINE.  Very. 

OLIVE.  It  felt  funny;  you  couldn't  see  any  wind, 
you  know. 

KATHERINE.  Talking  to  the  wind  is  an  expression, 
Olive. 


50  THE   MOB  ACT  m 

OLIVE.  Does  Daddy  often? 

KATHERINE.  Yes,  nowadays. 

OLIVE.  What  does  it  mean? 

KATHERINE.  Speaking  to  people  who  won't  listen. 

OLIVE.  What  do  they  do,  then? 

KATHERINE.  Just  a  few  people  go  to  hear  him,  and 
then  a  great  crowd  comes  and  breaks  in;  or  they  wait 
for  him  outside,  and  throw  things,  and  hoot. 

OLIVE.  Poor  Daddy!  Is  it  people  on  our  side  who 
throw  things? 

KATHERINE.  Yes,  but  only  rough  people. 

OLIVE.  Why  does  he  go  on  doing  it?    I  shouldn't. 

KATHERINE.  He  thinks  it  is  his  duty. 

OLIVE.  To  your  neighbour,  or  only  to  God? 

KATHERINE.  To  both. 

OLIVE.  Oh!    Are  those  his  letters? 

KATHERINE.  Yes. 

OLIVE.  [Reading  from  the  letter]  "My  dear  Heart." 
Does  he  always  call  you  his  dear  heart,  Mummy?  It's 
rather  jolly,  isn't  it?  "I  shall  be  home  about  half-past 
ten  to-morrow  night.  For  a  few  hours  the  fires  of 

p-u-r-g-a-t-o-r-y  will  cease  to  burn "  What  are  the 

fires  of  p-u-r-g-a-t-o-r-y? 

KATHERINE.  [Putting  away  the  letters]  Come,  Olive! 

OLIVE.  But  what  are  they? 

KATHERINE.  Daddy  means  that  he's  been  very  un- 
bappy. 

OLIVE.  Have  you,  too? 

KATHERINE.  Yes. 


ACT  in  THE  MOB  51 

OLIVE.  [Cheerfully]  So  have  I.  May  I  open  the 
window? 

KATHERINE.  No;  you'll  let  the  mist  in. 

OLIVE.  Isn't  it  a  funny  mist — all  flat! 

KATHEBINE.  Now,  come  along,  frog! 

OLIVE.  [Making  time]  Mummy,  when  is  Uncle  Hu- 
bert coming  back? 

KATHERINE.  We  don't  know,  dear. 

OLIVE.  I  suppose  Auntie  Helen'll  stay  with  us  till 
he  does. 

KATHERINE.  Yes. 

OLIVE.  That's  something,  isn't  it? 

KATHERINE.  [Picking  her  up]  Now  then! 

OLIVE.  [Deliriously  limp]  Had  I  better  put  in  the 
duty  to  your  neighbour — if  there  isn't  a  victory  soon? 
[As  they  pass  through  the  door]  You're  tickling  under 
my  knee!  [Little  gurgles  of  pleasure  follow.  Then 
silence.  Then  a  drowsy  voice]  I  must  keep  awake  for 
Daddy. 

KATHERINE  comes  back.  She  is  about  to  leave 
the  door  a  little  open,  when  she  hears  a  knock 
on  the  other  door.  It  is  opened  a  few  inches, 
and  NURSE'S  voice  says:  "Can  I  come  in, 
Ma'am?"  The  NURSE  comes  in. 

KATHERINE.  [Shutting  OLIVE'S  door,  and  going  up  to 
her]  What  is  it,  Nurse? 

NURSE.  [Speaking  in  a  low  voice]  I've  been  meaning 
to — I'll  never  do  it  in  the  daytime.  I'm  giving  you 
notice. 


52  THE  MOB  ACT  in 

KATHERINE.  Nurse!     You  tool 

She  looks  towards  OLIVE'S  room  with  dismay. 
The  NURSE  smudges  a  slow  tear  away  from  her 
cheek. 

NURSE.  I  want  to  go  right  away  at  once. 

KATHERINE.  Leave  Olive!  That  is  the  sins  of  the 
fathers  with  a  vengeance. 

NURSE.  I've  had  another  letter  from  my  son.  No, 
Miss  Katherine,  while  the  master  goes  on  upholdin' 
these  murderin'  outlandish  creatures,  I  can't  live  in 
this  house,  not  now  he's  coming  back. 

KATHERINE.  But,  Nurse ! 

NURSE.  It's  not  like  them  [With  an  ineffable  gesture] 
downstairs,  because  I'm  frightened  of  the  mob,  or  of 
the  window's  bein'  broke  again,  or  mind  what  the 
boys  in  the  street  say.  I  should  think  not — no!  It's 
my  heart.  I'm  sore  night  and  day  thinkin'  of  my  son, 
and  him  lying  out  there  at  night  without  a  rag  of  dry 
clothing,  and  water  that  the  bullocks  won't  drink,  and 
maggots  in  the  meat;  and  every  day  one  of  his  friends 
laid  out  stark  and  cold,  and  one  day — 'imself  perhaps. 
If  anything  were  to  'appen  to  him,  I'd  never  forgive 
meself — here.  Ah!  Miss  Katherine,  I  wonder  how 
you  bear  it — bad  news  comin'  every  day —  And  Sir 
John's  face  so  sad — •  And  all  the  time  the  master 
speaking  against  us,  as  it  might  be  Jonah  'imself. 

KATHERINE.  But,  Nurse,  how  can  you  leave  us, 
you? 

NURSE.  [Smudging  at  her  cheeks]  There's  that  tells 
me  it's  encouragin'  something  to  happen,  if  I  stay  here; 


ACT  in  THE  MOB  53 

and  Mr.  More  coming  back  to-night.     You  can't  serve 
God  and  Mammon,  the  Bible  says. 

KATHERINE.  Don't  you  know  what  it's  costing  him? 

NURSE.  Ah!  Cost  him  his  seat,  and  his  reputation; 
and  more  than  that  it'll  cost  him,  to  go  against  the 
country. 

KATHERINE.  He's  following  his  conscience. 

NURSE.  And  others  must  follow  theirs,  too.  No, 
Miss  Katherine,  for  you  to  let  him — you,  with  your 
three  brothers  out  there,  and  your  father  fair  wasting 
away  with  grief.  Sufferin'  too  as  you've  been  these 
three  months  past.  What'll  you  feel  if  anything  hap- 
pens to  my  three  young  gentlemen  out  there,  to  my 
dear  Mr.  Hubert  that  I  nursed  myself,  when  your 
precious  mother  couldn't?  What  would  she  have  said 
— with  you  hi  the  camp  of  his  enemies? 

KATHERINE.  Nurse,  Nurse! 

NURSE.  In  my  paper  they  say  he's  encouraging  these 
heathens  and  makin'  the  foreigners  talk  about  us;  and 
every  day  longer  the  war  lasts,  there's  our  blood  on 
this  house. 

KATHERINE.  [Turning  away]  Nurse,  I  can't — I  won't 
listen. 

NURSE.  [Looking  at  her  intently]  Ah!  You'll  move 
him  to  leave  off!  I  see  your  heart,  my  dear.  But  if 
you  don't,  then  go  I  must! 

She  nods  her  head  gravely,  goes  to  the  door  of 
OLIVE'S  room,  opens  it  gently,  stands  looking 
for  a  moment,  then  with  the  words  "My  Lamb! " 
she  goes  in  noiselessly  and  closes  the  door. 


54  THE  MOB  ACT  ra 

KATHERINE  turns  back  to  her  glass,  puts  back  her 
hair,  and  smooths  her  lips  and  eyes.     The  door 
from  the  corridor  is  opened,  and  HELEN'S  voice 
says:  "Kit!  You're  not  in  bed?" 
KATHERINE.  No. 

HELEN  too  is  in  a  wrapper,  with  a  piece  of  lace 
»  thrown  aver  her  head.     Her  face  is  scared  and 

miserable,   and   she   runs   into   KATHERINE'S 
arms. 

KATHERINE.  My  dear,  what  is  it? 
HELEN.  I've  seen — a  vision! 
KATHERINE.  Hssh!  You'll  wake  Olive! 
HELEN.  [Staring  before  her]  I'd  just  fallen  asleep, 
and  I  saw  a  plain  that  seemed  to  run  into  the  sky — 
like — that  fog.  And  on  it  there  were — dark  things. 
One  grew  into  a  body  without  a  head,  and  a  gun  by 
its  side.  And  one  was  a  man  sitting  huddled  up, 
nursing  a  wounded  leg.  He  had  the  face  of  Hubert's 
servant,  Wreford.  And  then  I  saw — Hubert.  His 
face  was  all  dark  and  thin;  and  he  had — a  wound,  an 
awful  wound  here  [She  touches  her  breast].  The  blood 
was  running  from  it,  and  he  kept  trying  to  stop  it — 
oh!  Kit — by  kissing  it  [She  pauses,  stifled  by  emotion]. 
Then  I  heard  Wreford  laugh,  and  say  vultures  didn't 
touch  live  bodies.  And  there  came  a  voice,  from  some- 
where, calling  out:  "Oh!  God!  I'm  dying!"  And 
Wreford  began  to  swear  at  it,  and  I  heard  Hubert 
say:  "Don't,  Wreford;  let  the  poor  fellow  be!"  But 
the  voice  went  on  and  on,  moaning  and  crying  out: 
"I'll  lie  here  all  night  dying — and  then  I'll  die!"  And 


ACT  ra  THE  MOB  55 

Wreford  dragged  himself  along  the  ground;  his  face 
all  devilish,  like  a  man  who's  going  to  kill. 

KATHEKINE.  My  dear!    How  ghastly! 

HELEN.  Still  that  voice  went  on,  and  I  saw  Wreford 
take  up  the  dead  man's  gun.  Then  Hubert  got  upon 
his  feet,  and  went  tottering  along,  so  feebly,  so  dread- 
fully— but  before  he  could  reach  and  stop  him,  Wre- 
ford fired  at  the  man  who  was  crying.  And  Hubert 
called  out:  "You  brute!"  and  fell  right  down.  And 
when  Wreford  saw  him  lying  there,  he  began  to  moan 
and  sob,  but  Hubert  never  stirred.  Then  it  all  got 
black  again — and  I  could  see  a  dark  woman-thing 
creeping,  first  to  the  man  without  a  head;  then  to  Wre- 
ford; then  to  Hubert,  and  it  touched  him,  and  sprang 
away.  And  it  cried  out:  "A — ai — ah!"  [Pointing  out 
at  the  mist]  Look!  Out  there!  The  dark  things! 

KATHERINE.  [Putting  her  arms  round  her]  Yes,  dear, 
yes!  You  must  have  been  looking  at  the  mist. 

HELEN.  [Strangely  calm]  He's  dead! 

KATHEKINE.  It  was  only  a  dream. 

HELEN.  You  didn't  hear  that  cry.  [She  listens] 
That's  Stephen.  Forgive  me,  Kit;  I  oughtn't  to  have 
upset  you,  but  I  couldn't  help  coming. 

She  goes  out.  KATHERINE,  into  whom  her  emo* 
tion  seems  to  have  passed,  turns  feverishly  to 
the  window,  throws  it  open  and  leans  out. 
MORE  comes  in. 

MORE.  Kit! 

Catching  sight  of  her  figure  in  the  window,  he  goes 
quickly  to  her. 


56  THE   MOB  ACT  ra 

KATHEBINE.  Ah!  [She  has  mastered  her  emotion. 

MORE.  Let  me  look  at  you! 

He  draws  her  from  the  window  to  the  candle-light, 
and  looks  long  at  her. 

MORE.  What  have  you  done  to  your  hair? 

KATHERINE.  Nothing. 

MORE.  It's  wonderful  to-night. 

He  takes  it  greedily  and  buries  his  face  in  it. 

KATHERINE.  [Drawing  her  hair  away]  Well? 

MORE.  At  last! 

KATHERINE.  [Pointing  to  OLIVE'S  room]  Hssh! 

MORE.  How  is  she? 

KATHERINE.  All  right. 

MORE.  And  you? 

[KATHERINE  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

MORE.  Six  weeks! 

KATHERINE.  Why  have  you  come? 

MORE.  Why! 

KATHERINE.  You  begin  again  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. Was  it  worth  while? 

MORE.  Kit! 

KATHERINE.  It  makes  it  harder  for  me,  that's  all. 

MORE.  [Staring  at  her]  What's  come  to  you? 

KATHERINE.  Six  weeks  is  a  long  time  to  sit  and  read 
about  your  meetings. 

MORE.  Put  that  away  to-night.  [He  touches  her]  This 
is  what  travellers  feel  when  they  come  out  of  the 
desert  to — water. 

KATHERINE.  [Suddenly  noticing  the  cut  on  his  fore- 
head] Your  forehead!  It's  cut. 

MORE.  It's  nothing. 


ACT  m  THE  MOB  57 

KATHERINE.  Oh!     Let  me  bathe  it'i 
MORE.  No,  dear!     It's  all  right. 
KATHERINE.  [Turning   away]  Helen   has  just  been 
telling  me  a  dream  she's  had  of  Hubert's  death. 
MORE.  Poor  child ! 

KATHERINE.  Dream  bad  dreams,  and  wait,  and  hide 
oneself — there's   been   nothing   else  to   do.     Nothing, 
Stephen — nothing ! 
MORE.  Hide?     Because  of  me? 

[KATHERINE  nods. 

MORE.  [With  a  movement  of  distress]  I  see.  I 
thought  from  your  letters  you  were  coming  to  feel — . 
Kit!  You  look  so  lovely! 

Suddenly  he  sees  that  she  is  crying,  and  goes 

quickly  to  Iier. 

MORE.  My  dear,  don't  cry!  God  knows  I  don't 
want  to  make  things  worse  for  you.  I'll  go  away. 

She  draws  away  from  him  a  little,  and  after  looking 
long  at  her,  he  sits  down  at  the  dressing-table 
and  begins  turning  over  the  brushes  and  articles 
of  toilet,  trying  to  find  words. 

MORE.  Never  look  forward.  After  the  time  I've 
had — I  thought — to-night — it  would  be  summer — I 
thought  it  would  be  you — and  everything! 

While  he  is  speaking  KATHERINE  has  stolen  closer. 
She  suddenly  drops  on  her  knees  by  his  side  and 
wraps  his  hand  in  her  hair.  He  turns  and  clasps 
her. 

MORE.  Kit! 

KATHERINE.  Ah!  yes!  But — to-morrow  it  begins 
again.  Oh!  Stephen!  How  long — how  long  am  I  to 


58  THE   MOB  ACT  m 

be  torn  in  two?  [Drawing  back  in  his  arms]  I  can't — 
can't  bear  it. 

MORE.  My  darling! 

KATHERINE.  Give  it  up!  For  my  sake!  Give  it 
up!  [Pressing  closer  to  him]  It  shall  be  me — and  every- 
thing  

MORE.  God! 

KATHERINE.  It  shall  be — if — if 


MORE.  [Aghast]  You're   not   making    terms?    Bar- 
gaining?   For  God's  sake,  Kit! 

KATHERINE.  For  God's  sake,  Stephen! 

MORE.  You! — of  all  people — you! 

KATHERINE.  Stephen! 

For  a  moment  MORE  yields  utterly,  then  shrinks 
back. 

MORE.  A  bargain!    It's  selling  my  soul! 

He  struggles  out  of  her  arms,  gets  up,  and  stands 
without  speaking,  staring  at  her,  and  wiping 
the  sweat  from  his  forehead.  KATHERINE  re- 
mains some  seconds  on  her  knees,  gazing  up  at 
him,  not  realizing.  Then  her  head  droops;  she 
too  gets  up  and  stands  apart,  with  her  wrapper 
drawn  close  round  her.  It  is  as  if  a  cold  and 
deadly  shame  had  come  to  them  both.  Quite 
suddenly  MORE  turns,  and,  without  looking 
back,  feebly  makes  his  way  out  of  the  room. 
When  he  is  gone  KATHERINE  drops  on  her  knees 
and  remains  there  motionless,  huddled  in  her 
hair. 

THE    CURTAIN    FALLS 


ACT    IV 

It  is  between  lights,  the  following  day,  in  the  dining-room 
of  MOKE'S  house.  The  windows  are  closed,  but  cur- 
tains are  not  drawn.  STEEL  is  seated  at  the  bureau, 
writing  a  letter  from  MORE'S  dictation. 

STEEL.  [Reading  over  the  letter]  "No  doubt  we  shall 
tave  trouble.  But,  if  the  town  authorities  at  the  last 
minute  forbid  the  use  of  the  hall,  we'll  hold  the  meeting 
in  the  open.  Let  bills  be  got  out,  and  an  audience  will 
collect  in  any  case." 

MORE.  They  will. 

STEEL.  "Yours  truly";  I've  signed  for  you. 

[MORE  nods. 

STEEL.  [Blotting  and  enveloping  the  letter]  You  know 
the  servants  have  all  given  notice — except  Henry. 

MORE.  Poor  Henry! 

STEEL.  It's  partly  nerves,  of  course — the  windows 
have  been  broken  twice — but  it's  partly 

MORE.  Patriotism.  Quite!  they'll  do  the  next 
smashing  themselves.  That  reminds  me — to-morrow 
you  begin  holiday,  Steel. 

STEEL.  Oh,  no! 

MORE.  My  dear  fellow — yes.  Last  night  ended 
your  sulphur  cure.  Truly  sorry  ever  to  have  let  you 
in  for  it. 

59 


60  THE  MOB  ACT  iv 

STEEL.  Some  one  must  do  the  work.  You're  half 
dead  as  it  is. 

MORE.  There's  lots  of  kick  in  me. 
STEEL.  Give  it  up,  sir.     The  odds  are  too  great.     It 
isn't  worth  it. 

MORE.  To  fight  to  a  finish;  knowing  you  must  be 
beaten — is  anything  better  worth  it? 
STEEL.  Well,  then,  I'm  not  going. 
MORE.  This  is  my  private  hell,  Steel;  you  don't 
roast  in  it  any  longer.     Believe  me,  it's  a  great  comfort 
to  hurt  no  one  but  yourself. 
STEEL.  I  can't  leave  you,  sir. 

MORE.  My  dear  boy,  you're  a  brick — but  we've 
got  off  by  a  miracle  so  far,  and  I  can't  have  the  respon- 
sibility of  you  any  longer.  Hand  me  over  that  corre- 
spondence about  to-morrow's  meeting. 

STEEL  takes  some  papers  from  his  pocket,  but  does 

not  hand  them. 

MORE.  Come!  [He  stretches  out  his  hand  for  the 
papers.  As  STEEL  still  draws  back,  he  says  more  sharply] 
Give  them  to  me,  Steel!  [STEEL  hands  them  over]  Now, 
that  ends  it,  d'you  see? 

They  stand  looking  at  each  other;  then  STEEL, 
very  much  upset,  turns  and  goes  out  of  the  room. 
MORE,  who  has  watched  him  with  a  sorry  smile, 
puts  the  papers  into  a  dispatch-case.  As  he  is 
closing  the  bureau,  the  footman  HENRY  enters, 
announcing:  "Mr.  Mendip,  sir."  MENDIP 
comes  in,  and  the  FOOTMAN  withdraws.  MORE 
turns  to  his  visitor,  but  does  not  hold  out  his  hand. 


ACT  iv  THE  MOB  61 

MENDIP.  [Taking  MORE'S  hand]  Give  me  credit  for 
a  little  philosophy,  my  friend.  Mrs.  More  told  me 
you'd  be  back  to-day.  Have  you  heard? 

MORE.  What? 

MENDIP.  There's  been  a  victory. 

MORE.  Thank  God! 

MENDIP.  Ah!     So  you  actually  are  flesh  and  blood. 

MORE.  Yes! 

MENDIP.  Take  off  the  martyr's  shirt,  Stephen. 
You're  only  flouting  human  nature. 

MORE.  So — even  you  defend  the  mob! 

MENDIP.  My  dear  fellow,  you're  up  against  the 
strongest  common  instinct  in  the  world.  What  do 
you  expect?  That  the  man  in  the  street  should  be  a 
Quixote?  That  his  love  of  country  should  express 
itself  in  philosophic  altruism?  What  on  earth  do  you 
expect?  Men  are  very  simple  creatures;  and  Mob  is 
just  conglomerate  essence  of  simple  men. 

MORE.  Conglomerate  excrescence.  Mud  of  street 
and  market-place  gathered  in  a  torrent — This  blind 
howling  "patriotism" — what  each  man  feels  in  here? 
[He  touclies  his  breast]  No! 

MENDIP.  You  think  men  go  beyond  instinct — the? 
don't.  All  they  know  is  that  something's  hurting  tlia' 
image  of  themselves  that  they  call  country.  They  just 
feel  something  big  and  religious,  and  go  it  blind. 

MORE.  This  used  to  be  the  country  of  free  speech 
It  used  to  be  the  country  where  a  man  was  expectec 
to  hold  to  his  faith. 

MENDIP.  There  are  limits  to  human  nature,  Stephen. 


62  THE  MOB  ACT  iv 

MORE.  Let  no  man  stand  to  his  guns  in  face  of 
popular  attack.  Still  your  advice,  is  it? 

MENDIP.  My  advice  is:  Get  out  of  town  at  once. 
The  torrent  you  speak  of  will  be  let  loose  the  moment 
this  news  is  out.  Come,  my  dear  fellow,  don't  stay 
here! 

MORE.  Thanks!  I'll  see  that  Katherine  and  Olive 
go. 

MENDIP.  Go  with  them!  If  your  cause  is  lost, 
that's  no  reason  why  you  should  be. 

MORE.  There's  the  comfort  of  not  running  away. 
And — I  want  comfort. 

MENDIP.  This  is  bad,  Stephen;  bad,  foolish — foolish. 
Well!  I'm  going  to  the  House.  This  way? 

MORE.  Down  the  steps,  and  through  the  gate. 
Good-bye? 

KATHERINE  has  come  in  followed  by  NURSE, 
hatted  and  cloaked,  with  a  small  bag  in  her  hand. 
KATHERINE  takes  from  the  bureau  a  cheque 
which  she  hands  to  the  NURSE.  MORE  comes  in 
from  the  terrace. 

MORE.  You're  wise  to  go,  Nurse. 

NURSE.  You've  treated  my  poor  dear  badly,  sir. 
Where's  your  heart? 

MORE.  In  full  use. 

NURSE.  On  those  heathens.  Don't  your  own  hearth 
and  home  come  first?  Your  wife,  that  was  born  in 
time  of  war,  with  her  own  father  fighting,  and  her 
grandfather  killed  for  his  country.  A  bitter  thing, 


ACT  iv  THE  MOB  63 

to  have  the  windows  of  her  house  broken,  and  be 
pointed  at  by  the  boys  in  the  street. 

MORE  stands  silent  under  this  attack,  looking  at 

his  wife. 

KATHERINE.  Nurse! 

NURSE.  It's  unnatural,  sir — what  you're  doing!    To 
think  more  of  those  savages  than  of  your  own  wife! 
Look  at  her!    Did  you  ever  see  her  look  like  that? 
Take  care,  sir,  before  it's  too  late! 
MORE.  Enough,  please! 

NURSE  stands  for  a  moment  doubtful;  looks  long  at 

KATHERINE;  then  goes. 
MORE.  [Quietly}  There  has  been  a  victory. 

[He  goes  out. 

KATHERINE  is  breathing  fast,  listening  to  the  dis- 
tant hum  and  stir  rising  in  the  street.     She 
runs  to  the  window  as  the  footman,  HENRY, 
entering,  says:   "Sir  John   Julian,  Ma'am!" 
SIR  JOHN  comes  in,  a  newspaper  in  his  hand. 
KATHERINE.  At  last!    A  victory! 
SIR  JOHN.  Thank  God !          [He  hands  her  the  paper. 
KATHERINE.  Oh,  Dad! 

She  tears  the  paper  open,  and  feverishly  reads. 
KATHEHINE.  At  last! 

The  distant  hum  in  the  street  is  rising  steadily. 
But  SIR  JOHN,  after  the  one  exultant  moment 
when  he  handed  her  the  paper,  stares  dumbly 
at  the  floor. 

KATHERINE.  [Suddenly    conscious    of    his    gravity] 
Father! 


64  THE  MOB  ACT  iv 

SIR  JOHN.  There  is  other  news. 
KATHEBINE.  One  of  the  boys?     Hubert? 

[SiR  JOHN  bows  his  head. 
KATHERINE.  Killed? 

[Sm  JOHN  again  bows  his  head. 

KATHERINE.  The  dream !  [She  covers  her  face]  Poor 
Helen! 

They  stand  for  a  few  seconds  silent,  then  SIR  JOHN 
raises  his  head,  and  putting  up  a  hand,  touches 
her  wet  cheek. 

SIR  JOHN.  [Huskily]  Whom  the  gods  love 

KATHERINE.  Hubert! 
SIR  JOHN.  And  hulks  like  me  go  on  living! 
KATHERINE.  Dear  Dad! 

SIR  JOHN.  But  we  shall  drive  the  ruffians  now!     We 
shall  break  them.     Stephen  back? 
KATHERINE.  Last  nighj. 

SIR  JOHN.  Has  he  finished  his  blasphemous  speech- 
making  at  last?  [KATHERINE  shakes  her  head]  Not? 

Then,  seeing  that  KATHERINE  is  quivering  with 

emotion,  he  strokes  her  hand. 
SIR  JOHN.  My  dear!    Death  is  in  many  houses! 
KATHERINE.  I   must  go  to  Helen.     Tell   Stephen, 
Father.     I  can't. 

SIR  JOHN.  If  you  wish,  child. 

She  goes  out,  leaving  SIR  JOHN  to  his  grave,  puz- 
zled grief;  and  in  a  few  seconds  MORE  comes  in. 
MORE.  Yes,  Sir  John.     You  wanted  me? 
SIR  JOHN.  Hubert  is  killed. 
MORE.  Hubert! 


ACT  iv  THE   MOB  65 

SIR  JOHN.  By  these — whom  you  uphold.  Katherine 
asked  me  to  let  you  know.  She's  gone  to  Helen.  I 
understand  you  only  came  back  last  night  from 

your No  word  I  can  use  would  give  what  I  feel 

about  that.  I  don't  know  how  things  stand  now  be- 
tween you  and  Katherine;  but  I  tell  you  this,  Ste- 
phen: you've  tried  her  these  last  two  months  beyond 
what  any  woman  ought  to  bear! 

[MORE  makes  a  gesture  of  pain* 

SIR  JOHN.  When  you  chose  your  course 

MORE.  Chose! 

SIR  JOHN.  You  placed  yourself  in  opposition  to 
every  feeling  in  her.  You  knew  this  might  come.  It 
may  come  again  with  another  of  my  sons 

MORE.  I  would  willingly  change  places  with  any 
one  of  them. 

SIR  JOHN.  Yes — I  can  believe  in  your  unhappiness. 
I  cannot  conceive  of  greater  misery  than  to  be  arrayed 
against  your  country.  If  I  could  have  Hubert  back, 
I  would  not  have  him  at  such  a  price — no,  nor  all  my 

sons.     Pro  putrid  mori My  boy,  at  all  events,  is 

happy! 

MORE.  Yes! 

SIR  JOHN.  Yet  you  can  go  on  doing  what  you  are! 
What  devil  of  pride  has  got  into  you,  Stephen? 

MORE.  Do  you  imagine  I  think  myself  better  than 
the  humblest  private  fighting  out  there?  Not  for  a 
minute. 

SIR  JOHN.  I  don't  understand  you.  I  always  thought 
you  devoted  to  Katherine. 


66  THE   MOB  ACT  iv 

MORE.  Sir  John,  you  believe  that  country  comes 
before  wife  and  child? 

SIR  JOHN.  I  do. 

MORE.  So  do  I. 

SIR  JOHN.  [Bewildered]  Whatever  my  country  does 
or  leaves  undone,  I  no  more  presume  to  judge  her  than 
I  presume  to  judge  my  God.  [With  all  the  exaltation  of 
the  suffering  he  has  undergone  for  her]  My  country! 

MORE.  I  would  give  all  I  have — for  that  creed. 

SIR  JOHN.  [Puzzled]  Stephen,  I've  never  looked  on 
you  as  a  crank;  I  always  believed  you  sane  and  honest. 
But  this  is — visionary  mania. 

MORE.  Vision  of  what  might  be. 

SIR  JOHN.  Why  can't  you  be  content  with  what  the 
grandest  nation — the  grandest  men  on  earth — have 
found  good  enough  for  them?  I've  known  them,  I've 
seen  what  they  could  suffer,  for  our  country. 

MORE.  Sir  John,  imagine  what  the  last  two  months 
have  been  to  me!  To  see  people  turn  away  in  the 
street — old  friends  pass  me  as  if  I  were  a  wall!  To 
dread  the  post!  To  go  to  bed  every  night  with  the 
sound  of  hooting  in  my  ears!  To  know  that  my  name 
is  never  referred  to  without  contempt 

SIR  JOHN.  You  have  your  new  friends.  Plenty  of 
them,  I  understand. 

MORE.  Does  that  make  up  for  being  spat  at  as  I 
was  last  night?  Your  battles  are  fool's  play  to  it. 

The  stir  and  rustle  of  the  crowd  in  the  street  grows 
louder.     SIR  JOHN  turns  his  head  towards  it. 

SIR  JOHN.  You've  heard  there's  been  a  victory.    Do 


ACT  iv  THE  MOB  67 

you  carry  your  unnatural  feeling  so  far  as  to  be  sorry 
for  that?  [MORE  shakes  his  head]  That's  something 
For  God's  sake,  Stephen,  stop  before  it's  gone  past 
mending.  Don't  ruin  your  life  with  Katherine.  Hu- 
bert was  her  favourite  brother;  you  are  backing  those 
who  killed  him.  Think  what  that  means  to  her! 
Drop  this — mad  Quixotism — idealism — whatever  you 
call  it.  Take  Katherine  away.  Leave  the  country 
till  the  thing's  over — this  country  of  yours  that  you're 
opposing,  and — and — traducing.  Take  her  away! 
Come!  What  good  are  you  doing?  What  earthly 
good?  Come,  my  boy!  Before  you're  utterly  undone. 

MORE.  Sir  John!  Our  men  are  dying  out  there  for 
the  faith  that's  in  them!  I  believe  my  faith  the 

higher,  the  better  for  mankind Am  I  to  slink 

away?  Since  I  began  this  campaign  I've  found  hun- 
dreds who've  thanked  me  for  taking  this  stand.  They 
look  on  me  now  as  their  leader.  Am  I  to  desert  them? 
When  you  led  your  forlorn  hope — did  you  ask  yourself 
what  good  you  were  doing,  or  whether  you'd  come 
through  alive?  It's  my  forlorn  hope  not  to  betray 
those  who  are  following  me;  and  not  to  help  let  die  a 
fire — a  fire  that's  sacred — not  only  now  in  this  country, 
but  in  all  countries,  for  all  time. 

SIR  JOHN.  {After  a  long  stare}  I  give  you  credit  for 
believing  what  you  say.  But  let  me  tell  you  what- 
ever that  fire  you  talk  of — I'm  too  old-fashioned  to 
grasp — one  fire  you  are  letting  die — your  wife's  love. 
By  God!  This  crew  of  your  new  friends,  this  crew  of 
cranks  and  jays,  if  they  can  make  up  to  you  for  the 


68  THE   MOB  ACT  iv 

loss  of  her  love — of  your  career,  of  all  those  who  used 
to  like  and  respect  you — so  much  the  better  for  you. 
But  if  you  find  yourself  bankrupt  of  affection — alone 
as  the  last  man  on  earth;  if  this  business  ends  in  your 
utter  ruin  and  destruction — as  it  must — I  shall  not 
pity — I  cannot  pity  you.  Good-night! 

He  marches  to  the  door,  opens  it,  and  goes  out. 
MORE  is  left  standing  perfectly  still.  The  stir 
and  murmur  of  the  street  is  grouping  all  the  time, 
and  slowly  forces  itself  on  his  consciousness.  He 
goes  to  the  bay  window  and  looks  out;  then  rings 
the  bell.  It  is  not  answered,  and,  after  turning 
up  the  lights,  he  rings  again.  KATHERINE 
comes  in.  She  is  wearing  a  black  hat,  and  black 
outdoor  coat.  She  speaks  coldly  without  looking 
up. 

KATHERINE.  You  rang! 
MORE.  For  them  to  shut  this  room  up. 
KATHERINE.  The  servants  have  gone  out.     They're 
afraid  of  the  house  being  set  on  fire. 
MORE.  I  see. 

KATHERINE.  They  have  not  your  ideals  to  sustain 
them.  [MoRE  winces}  I  am  going  with  Helen  and 
Olive  to  Father's. 

MORE.  [Trying  to  take  in  the  exact  sense  of  her  words] 
Good!  You  prefer  that  to  an  hotel?  [KATHERINE  nods. 
Gently]  Will  you  let  me  say,  Kit,  how  terribly  I  feel 

for  you — Hubert's 

KATHERINE.  Don't.  I  ought  to  have  made  what  I 
meant  plainer.  I  am  not  coming  back. 


ACT  iv  THE  MOB  69 

MORE.  Not ?    Not  while  the  house 

KATHERINE.  Not — at  all. 

MORE.  Kit! 

KATHERINE.  I  warned  you  from  the  first.  You've 
gone  too  far! 

MORE.  [Terribly  moved]  Do  you  understand  what 
this  means?  After  ten  years — and  all — our  love! 

KATHERINE.  Was  it  love?  How  could  you  ever  have 
loved  one  so  unheroic  as  myself! 

MORE.  This  is  madness,  Kit — Kit! 

KATHERINE.  Last  night  I  was  ready.  You  couldn't. 
If  you  couldn't  then,  you  never  can.  You  are  very 
exalted,  Stephen.  I  don't  like  living — I  won't  live, 
with  one  whose  equal  I  am  not.  This  has  been  coming 
ever  since  you  made  that  speech.  I  told  you  that 
night  what  the  end  would  be. 

MORE.  [Trying  to  put  his  arms  round  her]  Don't  be  so 
terribly  cruel! 

KATHERINE.  No!  Let's  have  the  truth!  People  so 
wide  apart  don't  love!  Let  me  go! 

MORE.  In  God's  name,  how  can  I  help  the  difference 
in  our  faiths? 

KATHERINE.  Last  night  you  used  the  word — bar- 
gain. Quite  right.  I  meant  to  buy  you.  I  meant 
to  kill  your  faith.  You  showed  me  what  I  was  doing. 
I  don't  like  to  be  shown  up  as  a  driver  of  bargains, 
Stephen. 

MORE.  God  knows — I  never  meant 

KATHERINE.  If  I'm  not  yours  in  spirit — I  don't 
choose  to  be  your — mistress. 


70  THE   MOB  ACT  iv 

MORE,  as  if  lashed  by  a  whip,  has  thrown  up  his 

hands  in  an  attitude  of  defence. 

KATHERINE.  Yes,  that's  cruel !  It  shows  the  heights 
you  live  on.  I  won't  drag  you  down. 

MORE.  For  God's  sake,  put  your  pride  away,  and 
see!  I'm  fighting  for  the  faith  that's  in  me.  What 
else  can  a  man  do?  What  else?  Ah!  Kit!  Do  see! 

KATHERINE.  I'm  strangled  here!  Doing  nothing — 
sitting  silent — when  my  brothers  are  fighting,  and  being 
killed.  I  shall  try  to  go  out  nursing.  Helen  will  come 
with  me.  I  have  my  faith,  too;  my  poor  common  love 
of  country.  I  can't  stay  here  with  you.  I  spent  last 
night  on  the  floor — thinking — and  I  know ! 
MORE.  And  Olive? 

KATHERINE.  I  shall  leave  her  at  Father's,  with 
Nurse;  unless  you  forbid  me  to  take  her.  You  can. 

MORE.  [Icily]  That  I  shall  not  do — you  know  very 
well.  You  are  free  to  go,  and  to  take  her. 

KATHERINE.  [Very  low]  Thank  you!  [Suddenly  she 
turns  to  him,  and  draws  his  eyes  on  her.  Without  a 
sound,  she  puts  her  whole  strength  into  that  look]  Stephen! 
Give  it  up!  Come  down  to  me! 

The  festive  sounds  from  tlie  street  grow  louder. 
There  can  be  heard  the  blowing  of  whistles,  and 
bladders,  and  all  the  sounds  of  joy. 
MORE.  And  drown  in — that? 

KATHERINE  turns  swiftly  to  the  door.  There  she 
stands  and  again  looks  at  him.  Her  face  is 
mysterious,  from  the  conflicting  currents  of  her 
emotions. 


ACT  iv  THE  MOB  71 

MORE.  So — you're  going? 
KATHERINE.  [In  a  whisper]  Yes. 

She  bends  her  head,  opens  the  door,  and  goes. 
MORE  starts  forward  as  if  to  follow  her,  but 
OLIVE  has  appeared  in  the  doorway.  She  has 
on  a  straight  little  white  coat  and  a  round  white 
cap. 
OLIVE.  Aren't  you  coming  with  us,  Daddy? 

[MORE  shakes  his  head. 
OLIVE.  Why  not? 

MORE.  Never  mind,  my  dicky  bird. 
OLIVE.  The  motor'll  have  to  go  very  slow.    There 
are  such  a  lot  of  people  in  the  street.     Are  you  staying 
to  stop  them  setting  the  house  on  fire?  [MoRE  nods] 
May  I  stay  a  little,  too?  [MORE  shakes  his  head]  Why? 
MORE.  [Putting  his  hand  on  her  head]  Go  along,  my 
pretty! 

OLIVE.  Oh!  love  me  up,  Daddy! 

[MoRE  takes  and  loves  her  up 
OLIVE.  Oo-o! 
MORE.  Trot,  my  soul ! 

She  goes,  looks  back  at  him,  turns  suddenly,  and 

vanishes. 

MORE  follows  her  to  the  door,  but  stops  there. 
Then,  as  full  realization  begins  to  dawn  on  him, 
he  runs  to  the  bay  window,  craning  his  head  to 
catch  sight  of  the  front  door.  There  is  the  sound 
of  a  vehicle  starting,  and  the  continual  hooting 
of  its  horn  as  it  makes  its  way  among  the  crowd. 
He  turns  from  the  window. 


72  THE  MOB  ACT  iv 

MORE.  Alone  as  the  last  man  on  earth! 

Suddenly  a  voice  rises  clear  out  of  the  hurly-burly 
in  the  street. 

VOICE.  There  'e  is!    That's  'im!    More!     Traitor! 
More! 

A  shower  of  nutshells,  orange-peel,  and  harmless 
missiles  begins  to  rattle  against  the  glass  of  the 
window.  Many  voices  take  up  the  groaning: 
"More!  Traitor!  Black-leg!  More!"  And 
through  the  window  can  be  seen  waving  flags 
and  lighted  Chinese  lanterns,  swinging  high  on 
long  bamboos.  The  din  of  execration  swells. 
MORE  stands  unheeding,  still  gazing  after  the 
cab.  Then,  with  a  sharp  crack,  a  flung  stone 
crashes  through  one  of  the  panes.  It  is  followed 
by  a  hoarse  shout  of  laughter,  and  a  hearty  groan. 
A  second  stone  crashes  through  the  glass.  MORE 
turns  for  a  moment,  with  a  contemptuous  look, 
towards  the  street,  and  the  flare  of  the  Chinese 
lanterns  lights  up  his  face.  Then,  as  if  forget- 
ting all  about  the  din  outside,  he  moves  back  into 
the  room,  looks  round  him,  and  lets  his  head 
droop.  The  din  rises  louder  and  louder;  a  third 
stone  crashes  through.  MORE  raises  his  head 
again,  and,  clasping  his  hands,  looks  straight 
before  him.  The  footman,  HENRY,  entering, 
hastens  to  the  French  windows. 

MORE.  Ah!  Henry,  I  thought  you'd  gone. 

FOOTMAN.  I  came  back,  sir. 

MORE.  Good  fellow! 


ACT  iv  THE  MOB  73 

FOOTMAN.  They're  trying  to  force  the  terrace  gate, 
sir.  They've  no  business  coming  on  to  private  prop- 
erty— no  matter  what! 

In  the  surging  entrance  of  the  mob  the  footman, 
HENRY,  who  shows  fight,  is  overwhelmed, 
hustled  out  into  the  crowd  on  the  terrace,  and  no 
more  seen.  The  MOB  is  a  mixed  crowd  of 
revellers  of  both  sexes,  medical  students,  clerks, 
shop  men  and  girls,  and  a  Boy  Scout  or  two. 
Many  have  exchanged  hats — some  wear  masks, 
or  false  noses,  some  carry  feathers  or  tin  whistles. 
Some,  with  bamboos  and  Chinese  lanterns, 
swing  them  up  outside  on  the  terrace.  The 
medley  of  noises  is  very  great.  Such  ring- 
leaders as  exist  in  the  confusion  are  a  GROUP 
OF  STUDENTS,  the  chief  of  whom,  conspicuous 
because  unadorned,  is  an  athletic,  hatless  young 
man  with  a  projecting  underjaw,  and  heavy 
coal-black  moustache,  who  seems  with  the  swing 
of  his  huge  arms  and  shoulders  to  sway  the  cur- 
rents of  motion.  When  the  first  surge  of  noise 
and  movement  subsides,  he  calls  out:  "To  him, 
boys!  Chair  the  hero!"  THE  STUDENTS 
rush  at  the  impassive  MORE,  swing  him  roughly 
on  to  their  shoulders  and  bear  him  round  the 
room.  When  they  have  twice  circled  the  table 
to  the  music  of  their  confused  singing,  groans 
and  whistling,  THE  CHIEF  OF  THE  STUDENTS 
calls  out:  "Put  him  down!"  Obediently  they 
set  him  down  on  the  table  which  has  been  forced 


74  THE   MOB  ACT  iv 

irdo  the  bay  window,  and  stand  gaping  up  at 
htm. 

CHIEF  STUDENT.  Speech!    Speech! 

The  noise  ebbs,  and  MORE  looks  round   him. 

CHIEF  STUDENT.  Now  then,  you,  sir. 

MORE.  [In  a  quiet  voice]  Very  well.  You  are  here 
by  the  law  that  governs  the  action  of  all  mobs — the 
law  of  Force.  By  that  law,  you  can  do  what  you  like 
to  this  body  of  mine. 

A  VOICE.  And  we  will,  too. 

MORE.  I  don't  doubt  it.  But  before  that,  I've  a 
word  to  say. 

A  VOICE.  You've  always  that. 

[ANOTHER  VOICE  raises  a  donkey's  braying. 

MORE.  You — Mob — are  the  most  contemptible  thing 
under  the  sun.  When  you  walk  the  street — God  goes 
in. 

CHIEF  STUDENT.  Be  careful,  you — sir. 

VOICES.  Down  him!    Down  with  the  beggar! 

MORE.  [Above  the  murmurs]  My  fine  friends,  I'm 
not  afraid  of  you.  You've  forced  your  way  into  my 
house,  and  you've  asked  me  to  speak.  Put  up  with 
the  truth  for  once!  [His  words  rush  out]  You  are  the 
thing  that  pelts  the  weak;  kicks  women;  howls  down 
free  speech.  This  to-day,  and  that  to-morrow.  Brain 
— you  have  none.  Spirit — not  the  ghost  of  it!  If 
you're  not  meanness,  there's  no  such  thing.  If  you're 
not  cowardice,  there  is  no  cowardice  [Above  the  grow- 
ing fierceness  of  the  hubbub]  Patriotism — there  are  two 


ACT  iv  THE  MOB  75 

kinds — that  of  our  soldiers,  andj  this  of  mine.     You 
have  neither! 

CHIEF  STUDENT.  [Checking  a  dangerous  rush]  Hold 
on!    Hold   on!  [To   MORE]  Swear  to  utter  no  more 
blasphemy  against  your  country:  Swear  it! 
CROWD.  Ah!    Ay!    Ah! 

MORE.  My  country  is  not  yours.  Mine  is  that  great 
country  which  shall  never  take  toll  from  the  weakness 
of  others.  [Above  the  groaning]  Ah!  you  can  break  my 
head  and  my  windows;  but  don't  think  that  you  can 
break  my  faith.  You  could  never  break  or  shake  it, 
if  you  were  a  million  to  one. 

A  girl  with  dark  eyes  and  hair  all  wild,  leaps  out 

from  the  crowd  and  shakes  her  fist  at  him. 
GIRL.  You're  friends  with  them  that  killed  my  lad! 
[MoRE  smiles  down  at  her,  and  she  swiftly  plucks  the 
knife  from  the  belt  of  a  Boy  Scout  beside  her]   Smile, 
you — cur! 

A  violent  rush  and  heave  from  behind  flings  MORE 
forward  on  to  the  steel.  He  reels,  staggers  back, 
and  falls  down  amongst  the  crowd.  A  scream, 
a  sway,  a  rush,  a  hubbub  of  cries.  The  CHIEF 
STUDENT  shouts  above  the  riot:  "Steady!" 
Another:  "My  God!  He's  got  it!" 
CHIEF  STUDENT.  Give  him  air! 

The  crowd  falls  back,  and  two  STUDENTS,  bending 
over  MORE,  lift  his  arms  and  head,  but  they  fall 
like  lead.     Desperately  they  test  him  for  life. 
CHIEF  STUDENT.  By  the  Lord,  it's  over! 

Then  begins  a  scared  swaying  out  towards  the 


76  THE  MOB  ACT  iv 

window.  Some  one  turns  out  the  lights,  and  in 
the  darkness  the  crowd  fast  melts  away.  The 
body  of  MORE  lies  in  the  gleam  from  a  single 
Chinese  lantern.  Muttering  the  words:  "Poor 
devil!  He  kept  his  end  up  anyway!"  the 
CHIEF  STUDENT  picks  from  the  floor  a  little 
abandoned  Union  Jack  and  lays  it  on  MORE'S 
breast.  Then  he,  too,  turns,  and  rushes  out. 
And  the  body  of  MORE  lies  in  the  streak  of  light; 
and  the  noises  in  the  street  continue  to  rise. 


THE   CURTAIN    FALLS,    BUT    RISES    AGAIN    ALMOST 
AT   ONCE. 


AFTERMATH 

A  late  Spring  dawn  is  just  breaking.  Against  trees  in 
leaf  and  blossom,  with  the  houses  of  a  London 
Square  beyond,  suffused  by  the  spreading  glow,  is 
seen  a  dark  life-size  statue  on  a  granite  pedestal. 
In  front  is  the  broad,  dust-dim  pavement.  The  light 
grows  till  the  central  words  around  the  pedestal  can 
be  clearly  read: 

ERECTED 

•To  the  Memory 

of 
STEPHEN  MORE 

"Faithful  to  his  ideal" 

High  above,  the  face  of  MORE  looks  straight  before  him 
with  a  faint  smile.  On  one  shoulder  and  on  his  bare 
head  two  sparrows  have  perched,  and  from  the  gar- 
dens, behind,  comes  the  twittering  and  singing  of 
birds. 

THE  CURTAIN  FALLS. 
END 


77 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Book  Slip-15m-8,'58(5890s4)4280 


L  005  476  322  2 


College 
Library 

PR 

6013 

G13A19 

1922 

ser.3 


